Second Mouse
by Alpha Flyer
Summary: "The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese" (Aldrich Killian). When HYDRA is suspected to be carrying out illicit activities in Scotland, SHIELD and MI-6 are asked to cooperate. Two covert agencies on the same turf - Barton & Bond, Fury & M, Coulson & Moneypenny - what could possibly go wrong? Oh, and who does the gorgeous redhead work for? FUSION.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Written for the 2012 **Marvel_Bang** - my first attempt at fusion. The story is finished, and I will post a new chapter every 2-3 days.

**Three Confessions:**1. _I warped Time_. I like the Dali version watches melting all over the landscape – and so I scrunched it and squished it and I'll tell you why: I like the M and Q of Skyfall (Judi Dench and Ben Whishaw) and Naomie Harris' Moneypenny. I wanted them all, at the same time. So in my 'verse, only Bad People died at Skyfall, and Mallory is still the head of the Intelligence and Security Committee. And it all happened way before the Battle of Manhattan, around 2006, at a time when a partnerless Clint Barton has been with S.H.I.E.L.D. for two or three years; Natasha Romanoff is out there, free-lancing; Tony Stark makes weapons of mass destruction rather than protecting people from them; Cap is still under the ice; and Thor is drinking mead in Asgard with his little brother.

2. _I committed crimes against science._ I use some words you may recognize, some maybe even in the right order, but then I veer about 90 degrees from geological reality. Anyone who has ever seen things like Dante's Peak or Volcano will forgive the impulse, I'm sure. Besides, hey – this is Marvel_Bang!

3_. I adore __**Inkvoices**_. As one of the mods on **be_compromised**, she was one of the first to make me feel welcome in this fandom, and a huge help with my legendary internet ineptitude. I did cartwheels when I found out that she had picked my story to illustrate. I integrated all her pieces in the story over on AO3, but you should really see them all together and tell her what you think: To do that, visit the **accompanying fanwork master post** on AO3, at archiveofourown dot org /works/1009325 (FFN refuses to permit direct linking, alas). The icon here is hers too.

And just to prove that sometimes, it truly does take a village: Thanks to **CloudAtlas** for cheerleading and Brit-picking; and to **Shenshen77** and **Kylen** for the beta. You guys ROCK.

* * *

**Second Mouse**

**By Alpha Flyer**

* * *

**Chapter 1 **

_**Moneypenny**_

"S.H.I.E.L.D.? Never heard of them. American?"

Eve glides into the room with her usual determined efficiency, planning to make a quick getaway after leaving the tray with the teapot and five cups on the desk.

M's schedule simply says _meeting at request of ISC (3x)_. The Director had made the entry herself just yesterday, right after the secure call from Mallory, the new head of the Intelligence and Security Committee. Eve has no context, and no agenda for the meeting - but what's a secret service without secrets, right? The left hand not having clearance to know what the right hand is doing is a founding principle of the business.

What Eve does know, based on that cryptic entry, is that there will be three visitors. Plus M and Bond – equals five cups for tea. Good thing she went to uni.

The head of MI-6 is pacing in front of the large window, her lips pursed in pinched disapproval. What exactly she is disapproving of is not clear – the possibilities are endless, frankly - but Eve suspects the mystery group whose name Bond just spat out tops today's list.

"You are not _supposed_ to have heard of this organization, 007, and once we are done with this silly exercise, we will erase its existence from our memory."

M takes her special cup from the tray, thanking Eve with the barest of nods; a slight flicker of her steel-grey eyes makes it clear that the last comment applies to her executive assistant as well.

"S.H.I.E.L.D., I am told, stands for _Strategic Homeland Investigation, Enforcement and Logistics Division_. A division of what, is not clear to me, and I shudder to contemplate. The only thing I do know is that despite the clever acronym and the reference to the Homeland, they answer to an international cabal called the World Security Council, not to the U.S. Government. And before you ask, I am not privy to this Council's origins nor to the identity of its members. All I was told is that they represent the 'collective interest of humanity'. To what extent, and what exactly they mean by that, I have no idea."

_Ah _–hence the pinched lips and the rant. If M hates anything, it's not knowing everything about something_._ Eve almost pities those S.H.I.E.L.D. reps, blissfully ignorant as they are of the arctic chill that awaits them.

She walks over and holds out the tea tray to Bond.

"It's not poisoned, is it?" he asks, as he picks up a cup, with that roguish little smile that routinely brings lesser women than Eve Moneypenny to their knees.

"Not yet," she replies, with a similar curl of her lips. Bond will never let her forget that she almost killed him once; she, in turn, likes to remind him that she still might. (Trust is a volatile and highly overrated commodity in their profession, but its absence should not preclude collegiality.)

M sets her cup down on her desk with an audible clunk and turns her back to the room. The view of the river is obscured by a pelting rain, one of those that drain all colour from the London skyline. Even the blinking lights of the BT tower have a hard time piercing the grey shroud.

"In the meantime, however, Mr. Mallory's Committee in its ineffable wisdom has assigned us to a joint operation with this … _agency_. Why, and at whose initiative, I have not been told_._"

If M were to speak in thought bubbles, Eve is convinced the word 'agency' just now would have been dripping with something. Acid? Viscous green slime?

She sets down the tea tray with a delicate but audible clang, to remind M of her existence so that she can be dismissed. If neither M nor Bond are supposed to have known about this S.H.I.E.L.D_. _outfit_, _then the less a mere executive assistant hears about it, the better, no? (Plausible deniability, and all that.)

Of course, M knows exactly what Eve is doing and why, and is having none of it. She turns around and fixes her EA with one of her command glares.

"You, Moneypenny, will act as the liaison between _them_ and _us_, on all matters of procedure, protocol and administration. They are bringing one of their own for you to work with. As for the operation… well, whatever it is, I have not yet been privileged to find out."

Acid it is, Eve decides. The carpet is practically bubbling.

"But I am told it is to be kept small, and off the grid. 007, you and one of their agents will be the executive arm of this exercise. And I expect _both_ of you to make sure that I have as little as possible to do with my … so-called counterpart, Director Fury."

The phone rings – call display indicates reception - before Eve has a chance to plumb the depth of contempt with which M manages to infuse the word 'counterpart'. The Director waves off Eve's attempt to respond, and opens the comms channel herself.

"Yes," she barks into the hands free setting.

"Three gentlemen to see you, Ma'am," comes a clipped voice. "Do you wish us to bring them up?"

"No, thank you. Ms Moneypenny will come down for them."

M hits the button again and turns back to the rain-speckled window with a frown.

"Well, at least they are punctual. I suppose that is something."

…..

Eve has learned to set aside all expectations when it comes to the type of person the head of MI-6 may meet in the course of an ordinary day, and so she doesn't blink at the trio who are in the process of being vetted and badged by security.

Only one of them, a white male, is dressed in a suit and tie. With his high forehead and blank facial expression he looks every bit the universal bureaucrat – the kind you find in Whitehall, or on the morning tube. Her liaison, she assumes.

The second, in half-open combat boots, black jeans and leather jacket, is the same unassuming height and colouring as Bond; even his dirty-blond hair is styled in a similar manner – short and spiky. He stands perfectly still, yet carries his lean, muscular body with the loose grace of a cat, ready to pounce. His eyes casually scan the lobby with the air of any curious first-time visitor - but Eve has long since learned that _bland _can come in fifty shades of deadly. This is Bond's counterpart, without doubt; the two of them could be brothers (except for the ears).

Then there is the third, and if this is who she thinks it must be, a starker contrast to her own boss Eve could not have imagined in her wildest dreams. Towering over the other two in every way possible, the man is tall, bald and black, his complexion much darker than her own. He is wearing a calf-length black leather coat, a patch over one eye and what seems like a perpetual scowl on his face - and projects both supreme confidence in his own authority, and the fact that he really, really doesn't give a shit whether you're okay with that.

"Director Fury, I presume?" she addresses him with a smile. He doesn't deny it, even gives the curtest of nods. "Eve Moneypenny. I'm here to bring you to your meeting with the Director of MI-6."

Only one of the trio responds verbally – Mr. Suit. He even smiles, in a blandly efficient way, and extends his hand for a short, firm shake.

"Pleased to meet you, Ms Moneypenny. Phil Coulson. Interesting weather you're having here."

No further introductions are made at this point; the Bond-clone doesn't seem to mind. There is a brief flurry of excitement as the metal detector registers strong objections to his presence, and the loud beep causes him to flex his fingers for just the briefest of moments. Eve makes a snap decision and waves off the converging guards; the guy at the scanner takes the hint and steps aside. The Bond-clone gives Eve the briefest of nods.

The ride up the elevator passes in silence, as she reflects on just why The Suit might seem so disproportionately grateful that no one tried to disarm his colleague. Score one for diplomacy.

The look in M's face when Eve ushers the three guests into the room is priceless. Her glance slides over the nameless bureaucrat and the operative and arrests on Fury, with barely concealed horror. (The head of MI-6, Eve knows, does not do flamboyance.) Fury, in turn, doesn't bother to hide the fact that he, too, would much rather be somewhere else.

Coulson inserts himself into the tension of the moment with the finesse of a finely-honed scalpel.

"Madam Director," he says in his pleasant, light tenor, "please allow me to make the introductions. Director Fury, I'm Phil Coulson, and this is Agent Barton."

Well, if Eve is to be the _liaison_, she may as well start now, and so she returns the favour.

"The Director of MI-6, known in the Service as M, and Mr. Bond."

M has successfully swallowed her disdain and motions her guests to the sitting area in the corner of her office. Fury shakes his head at Eve's tacit offer to take his coat and simply flips it back as he sits down, but Barton hands her his damp jacket with a polite flash of a smile that resides solely in his eyes. It does interesting things to his face.

He's wearing a t-shirt (black, naturally) underneath his jacket, and Eve gets a close-up of both the source of the metal detector's objections - a pair of Heckler & Koch P30s, in a double holster that crosses a nicely developed chest – and a set of rather impressive, veined arms. She suppresses her momentary appreciation and reverts resolutely back to professional mode.

While Coulson sits down in the seat she has indicated for him, Barton ignores his. Instead, he perches on top of a credenza beside Fury like a bird of prey, keeping those chiseled arms free for whatever contingency may arise. Bond, it appears, has noticed and does likewise, on the opposite side. The two men take each other's measure like silent predators staking out their territory; Eve can practically see the waves of testosterone cresting and colliding in the middle of the room.

M, seemingly oblivious to the silent battle being waged in her office, isn't one for niceties or talks about the weather, and so gets straight to the point.

"It appears as if our political masters have thrown us together rather against our mutual will, Director Fury. Why, I have no idea. I loathe uncertainty. Pray enlighten me."

As it turns out, he can.

"Be glad to … M. Our agents discovered activities on your Island of Skye that may involve an extremely dangerous international syndicate. One that we have some experience with."

"_Your_ agents." M's voice has that silky tone that Eve has long since learned to recognize as a prelude to war. "In _Britain_. I can assure you, Mr. Mallory's Committee and that so-called Council of yours that MI-6 can and does handle any and all foreign threats on British soil. Including on the _Isle_ _of Skye_."

Fury permits himself a toothy grin that is the antithesis of an apology – whether for the covert presence of S.H.I.E.L.D. in Britain, or his geographical slip-up – and that offers not a hint of reassurance.

"These guys are special. Which is probably why _your_ agents haven't noticed them."

The unspoken '_or us…'_ hangs in the room like a toxic cloud. Fury picks up a teacup and, after a moment's thought, extends his little finger in a way that makes it clear he normally executes the gesture with the middle one.

Eve makes a point of not looking at M; the Head of Her Majesty's Secret Service being condescended to is something best unnoticed by lesser beings. To his credit, though, Fury doesn't dwell on his victory and instead nods to Coulson. The latter takes a small USB stick out of his pocket (wait – now why didn't _that_ set off the metal detectors?) and waits for Eve to bring him a laptop.

No one asks her to leave and so she stays; as the Official Liaison she might as well have at least an idea of whatever joint Op the Committee is foisting on them. Bond winks at her as she pulls up a chair; Eve delicately shows him the finger. Barton, she notes, remains motionless on the credenza like a black gargoyle on a spring.

The next twenty minutes are spent on a sequence of photographs, including satellite shots the quality of which has M licking her lips in a mixture of disgust (_they're_ looking at _us_?) and raw envy; then there are clips from surveillance tapes, a series of headshots of mostly white males with cold eyes, and utterly dry recitations from Coulson.

It's all pretty abstract, and there are a lot of gaps in the information being provided. But according to S.H.I.E.L.D., a group of scientists of questionable provenance may or may not be carrying out illicit geological research activities off the coast of Scotland, on Skye.

M is not impressed.

"_Geology_? I was expecting portable thermonuclear devices at the very least, to lure you and your … _people_ out of the woodwork." She gestures vaguely in Barton's direction. "And the concern about this geological research is what, exactly?"

Coulson clicks.

"This."

The image on the screen shows an artist's rendering of a horribly deformed face – more a skull, really, a bright red skull – wearing a Nazi officer's uniform.

Bond raises a questioning eyebrow even as M harrumphs.

"You must be joking. A mask? Really. You Americans have such a flair for the cliché."

Eve, for her part, can't tear her eyes off the image; there is something about those grotesque features and the contemptuous eyes staring out at her from the screen that wrings a primal warning from the deepest recesses of her mind. She crosses her arms in front of her chest, grabbing her elbows so as not to shiver. Barton's eyes flicker across to her for the briefest of moments. He doesn't miss much, she concludes, and finds herself curiously comforted by his attention.

"This man, Johann Schmidt, was the leader of HYDRA, the deep science division of the Nazi SS. He was implicated in serious crimes in Norway and elsewhere in Europe. In fact, he was planning to take over from Adolf Hitler."

Coulson makes a small pause, presumably for effect, and Fury takes the opportunity to make a point of his own.

"Based on what we know about him, this would not have been an improvement."

Coulson nods and continues, as bland as ever.

"Schmidt's attempts to turn himself into a form of superman through a special chemical formula resulted in the facial deformity that you see on the screen. It took a very special unit of soldiers, under a very special leader, to thwart his plans."

He takes a sip of his tea as if to soothe a suddenly dry throat before continuing.

"This man," Coulson clicks again to produce the image of a dark-haired, vaguely smug-looking man in his forties, "is Schmidt's great nephew, Anton Marquardt. A multi-disciplinary scientist loosely associated with several Max Planck Institutes. He has acquired a derelict estate on the Isle of Skye where he is currently carrying out drilling operations."

M casts a sharp glance at Eve, who needs no further cue to head for the desktop computer in the corner. Coulson, however, waves her off.

"No need to look it up, Miss Moneypenny. Marquardt has a perfectly valid license from the Scottish Government to take soil samples to a depth of 1,000 feet, ostensibly to look for hydrocarbon deposits. We don't think that's what he's doing, though."

He turns off the laptop and recovers his memory device.

"So what _is_ he after then?" M is getting impatient. As briefings go, this one rather lacks granularity.

"That's the problem, Ma'am; we don't know."

Fury chimes in, his voice gravel on steel.

"But we intend to find out."

"Any SigInt?" Eve asks the obvious question, given that she drops about three pounds of transcripts from intercepts on M's desk each day.

"No signals intelligence whatsoever," Coulson responds flatly. "That's part of the problem. They've established a virtual dead zone around the facility, scrambling all communications."

M has heard enough.

"Forgive me, but what exactly, is the basis of your concern, Mr. Fury? _Somebody's fucking family tree_? If we sent agents after every person in this country whose relatives committed war crimes somewhere on the planet I would require a bloody army."

Eve notices Barton's head lifting at the sudden invective, delivered in M's immaculate Oxbridge accent. His lips quirk a little, almost as if he were recalibrating a prior assessment. (Eve, too, is observant.)

M continues.

"I have a feeling that _your_ Council and _my_ Committee are sending us on a wild goose chase. And those generally do _not_ get better odds by inviting a foreign covert agency to operate on British soil. Quite the contrary, in my experience."

Fury cuts off Coulson's attempt at a reply with a couple of raised fingers.

"Actually, that wild goose chase of yours is more like ghost busting. HYDRA went underground after Schmidt's demise, but small cells periodically pop back up. Been keeping us entertained off and on for decades. Like a game of whack-a-mole."

All smugness has drained from Fury's face, and his one eye burns with a disquieting intensity.

"There has been a recent uptick in minor seismic activity in the region where HYDRA is operating. It may just be coincidence, and at this point geologists – including yours – haven't raised any concerns. But if our analysts are correct, and HYDRA has established an operation here, their activities may be the cause and in that case, believe me, you _want_ to deal with them. And you _need_ us. These guys play for keeps, in ways you don't know yet."

"And what do you expect us to do? Him and me?"

Bond's sudden question is directed at Fury. He encompasses Barton in the 'us' via a small tilt of his chin, but his tone makes it clear that he won't regard the answer as any kind of order. Those he will only take from the woman with the iron stare.

Barton himself still hasn't said anything; Eve is beginning to wonder whether he's under orders to remain quiet, and how long that will last. His eyes certainly don't seem to miss much, and there is definitely someone home behind them. He laser-focuses on Bond now, watching his reaction as the Director replies.

"You and Barton need to go up there, find out what Marquardt is up to and whether HYDRA is in fact back in business. And if they are, put an end to whatever it is they're doing."

Sounds simple enough. Eve has heard less detailed directions emanate from M's lips on many occasions: _Investigate the death of John Strangeways. Bring back the Lektor decoder. _She also remembers just how … well … those missions went.

To her surprise, M doesn't argue. Not with the mission parameters, anyway.

"I suppose MI-6 should be grateful that your Council is asking for our participation in this little adventure of yours? Rather than that of MI-5, which normally handles domestic matters?"

Fury bares his impressive teeth in what is most decidedly not a smile.

"Wasn't my idea, if that's what you're asking. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't need you, and I don't care how you carve up your responsibilities. But this is very definitely an international threat, and the Council insisted that you be involved."

"And my Committee apparently agrees with you, Mr. Fury. Well. I suppose there is nothing for it then. After all, we must not say 'no' to Mr. Mallory and the Committee. It appears that _Commander_ Bond, whom they have requested by name, and your _Mr_. Barton will be going to Scotland together."

She directs a haughty gaze at the still figure on the credenza.

"You will be happy to know that Commander Bond is one of our finest, most experienced field agents."

Bond allows his eyes to crinkle in a small smile; Eve knows that the indirect compliment – however weaponized for the occasion - has just been filed away, to be repurposed at some future juncture.

Fury is not impressed.

"I think you'll find Agent Barton adequate to the job. Whatever that turns out to be."

"It is comforting to know that S.H.I.E.L.D. strives for _adequacy_." M's smile is without humour.

Fury doesn't reply, just raises an eyebrow and flashes a look at his agent with that disconcerting single eye – a look that it takes Eve mere seconds to see for what it is: The cutting of the man's leash.

Barton peels himself off the credenza and walks over to Bond, passing by M without so much as a glance. He extends his hand to his fellow agent, who shakes it hard – a ritual exchange that Eve is happy not to be a part of. His hand safely retracted, Barton's mouth curls into the slightest of ironic smiles.

"So, _Commander_, how come your boss gets a letter and you get a real name? No call signs for agents in MI-6?"

M does not like to be ignored.

"Commander Bond goes by the code name 007."

Barton is visibly unimpressed.

"Letters _and _numbers, huh. Very original. Mine's Hawkeye," he drawls in response, and somehow Eve has the feeling he is pouring on the Midwestern accent a little extra-thick.

"How _quaint_. Hawkeye. M.A.S.H., or James Fenimore Cooper?" The Director does not wait for an answer; it wasn't really a question. "Commander Bond is one of our double-oh cadre of agents, Mr. Barton."

Barton is utterly unperturbed. For all Eve knows, he adores Alan Alda and has no clue who the other guy is. (_She_ doesn't – what Google is for, right?)

"That supposed to mean something to me, ma'am, double-oh?"

"It means, Mr. Barton, that Commander Bond has a license to kill."

Barton drops the country hick act like a hot rock. Even his face changes, Eve notes.

"You're shitting me. You need a _license_ for that here?"

"You most certainly do, Mr. Barton. The United Kingdom is a civilized country."

Coulson sends a pleading look towards Barton – _Hawkeye –_ obviously trying to get him to keep the diplomatic incident contained before it goes nuclear. Eve has the feeling that this doesn't succeed very often, especially not with Fury grinning like a pit bull whose pup has just started to chew on his first Doberman.

"Civilized, eh. So you need, like, a warrant before pulling the trigger? Judicial oversight? Accountability, and all that jazz? Must slow things down quite a bit in a fight."

"It's actually more like a blank cheque," Bond offers coolly. "We're not _that_ civilized."

M shoots Bond her best Medusa glare, even as Barton's eyes light up in an appreciative glint. The grin he directs at Eve is positively feral.

"Better get me one of those then, Miss Moneypenny."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 **

_**Bond**_

The next morning is a considerable improvement on the previous day; by the time Bond pulls up across from Durrant's Hotel at 6 am, the sun has come out. Taking advantage of the liquid gold that is a parking spot in Marylebone, he heads across the street and into the lobby. Barton is in the process of settling his bill; Coulson is hovering over his shoulder. It appears they are bickering over who should keep the hard copy of the receipt.

"Fuck it, Phil. You're sending me into mortal danger, without you around to babysit the paperwork. You know what Accounting will do to my corpse if I lose the fucking thing?"

"Your estate will be responsible for settling up, and whatever Accounting does to your remains won't matter a great deal to you, and nothing at all to me. But if you survive – and you always do, much to our collective chagrin – you're just trying to get me to file your claim for you. Read my lips: Not a chance, Hawkeye."

"Fine. I'll make you my executor then. That way you will_ have_ to deal with Nora when the receipts go missing in the explosion."

Bond has the distinct impression that versions of this exchange happen on a regular basis, just like he and Moneypenny have their own canon. The part about 'you always survive'_, _though - that he files away, as useful building block intel on the man he is about to be partnered with.

He suspects that Barton must be top of his profession; no agency would send the B-team to a first cooperative venture, but the MI-6 analyst who got busy overnight hadn't been able to find any record of the man. (They have yet to learn his first name.)

The most notable occurrence of a _Barton_ of roughly the same age was a juvenile circus performer, active for a time in the U.S. Midwest. Intriguingly, he performed under the name 'Hawkeye.' But that, according to the analyst, is probably either coincidence, or deliberately misleading. After all, Barton may not even be the man's real name.

"Why don't you have them issue and e-mail the receipt directly to your accounting department?"

Bond inserts himself into the argument a bit impatiently; he'd like to get on the road and onto the M1 before rush hour traffic hits. His suggestion has the same effect as a copper's presence at a domestic dispute: Both parties instantly round on him.

"E-mail? In this joint?" Barton sounds skeptical. "I mean it's nice and quaint, in a Ye Aulde Merrie way, but based on the entertainment system in my room they're still carving shit into wax tablets."

"I don't know about procedures in your organization, Mr. Bond," Coulson, for his part, reprimands prissily. "In ours, we value individual accountability for taxpayers' funds."

Barton solves the issue by grabbing his luggage – a military-looking duffel and what looks like an instrument box – instead of his receipt and walking past Bond, giving him a conspiratorial grin as he does.

"So where's your car, Commander?" he asks, while Coulson glares at his retreating back.

"Just _Bond_ is fine, Barton," Bond says as they head outside. "_Commander_ is something M uses to mislead people into thinking that she regards me as something other than her own personal flying monkey."

He hesitates for a moment. Time to establish parameters.

"Which I am, I suppose, since she ordered me to take you along, on a mission I could handle perfectly on my own."

Barton turns in his tracks.

"Let's make something perfectly clear, _Commander,_" he practically purrs (the kind of large-cat purr that has broken glass and metal in it for extra texture). "I don't want _you_ on this op anymore than you want _me_. And MI-6 wouldn't even _be_ on this mission - in fact you'd still be wallowing in blissful ignorance - if it weren't for us telling you that there was a mission to be had in the first place. But for some fucking reason that escapes us all, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s overlords have decided to throw us together, and yours have blessed the arrangement. So let's just cut the posturing crap and get on with it, okay?"

Bond suppresses a sound in his throat – the man is not wrong, although he'll be damned if he'd admit it – and pops the locks on the Aston Martin.

"Fine," he says in the blandest tone possible. "Put your kit in the boot."

"The boot?" Barton is momentarily taken aback. "Whose boot?"

Bond sighs internally. _Americans._ "The _trunk_," he explains, practically spelling out the word.

"Whyn't you say so?"

The man seems as unfazed by superciliousness as he is by direct insults. Bond makes another mental note.

"Nice ride, by the way. You want me to drive at some point?"

"No."

"I'm actually a pretty good driver," Barton says, a little wistfully, as he strokes the silver chassis with one finger. "Even with the steering wheel on the wrong side."

"Forget it," Bond sighs. "This is my personal car, not a Crown asset. The list of people permitted to drive it is very short. In fact, it's limited to one. Myself."

"You mean _me_," Barton replies blandly. "I may be American, but I do know me some grammar."

Bond suppresses a snort. _Don't let Barton know that you found that funny. _Instead, he watches the man try and wedge his duffel into the tiny space that is the Aston Martin's boot.

"Not much room in here, is there?"

"Built for speed, not cargo. What about that trombone of yours, or whatever it is? Does that have to come?"

Barton's good humour evaporates as suddenly as he had mustered it after Bond's little motivational speech, and he turns - not cold, but … _still_. Like a cobra, ready to strike.

"Yes," he presses out. "It does. Riding on my lap, if it has to."

Bond shrugs.

"Long drive, even in this car. Up to you, but if you have to bring it, I'd put it behind the seats."

Barton hesitates, frowns, and Bond can see him calculate something. Angle and speed of access, no doubt. What the hell is _in_ that thing? It's not the right shape for any firearm he's ever used, and not big enough for a MANPAD.

Barton nods, sharply and decisively.

"Long as I can reach it."

Barton gives a Royal Wave to Coulson, who has turned up on the sidewalk outside the hotel as if to verify that the car is actually leaving; Bond makes sure his companion gets plastered into his seat as he pulls out with squealing tyres. All conversation stops until they merge onto the motorway, just off the Edgware Road.

"That left-side drive thing is just plain weird," Barton remarks as Bond guns around a lorry into the passing lane. "Although I gotta say, I made real good time once in Delhi by basically ignoring it. Freaked out some truck drivers though. _And_ a couple of those beige cows."

Courtesy seems to demand a response, and pretty soon Bond finds himself comparing notes with the American on driving experiences in the various places where they have carried out missions, with progressively escalating examples. By the time they're past Hemel Hempstead, the ice seems sufficiently broken for him to ask the question that has been burning in his mind since they left George Street.

"So if it's not a trombone, what's in that box of yours?"

"My bow."

Barton's immediate and natural delivery is entirely at odds with the semantic content of his response, and it takes all of Bond's training for the statement not to impact his driving.

"Your … bow? You do know we're going up there ostensibly for a spot of fly fishing, not archery?" he asks carefully.

"Yeah, so I gather. Whose idea was that, by the way – fly fishing? And where are our rods? Didn't see any in the trunk."

"Mine. There's a lodge near that supposed vipers' nest of yours, and that's why people go up there. We're picking the rods up en route. Now about that bow …"

"Weapon of choice."

Bond takes several miles to digest this information. Finally, he just has to ask.

"But you were carrying P30s when we met. And God knows what else. Moneypenny told me you lit up the alarm system like a Christmas tree."

"Still got those, thanks. Coulson didn't think I'd need the bow in your HQ."

_Right._ Bond has the uncomfortable feeling that this conversation isn't going exactly where he wants it to. And that this is not entirely an accident. He decides to try again.

"Why, exactly, do you use a bow, Agent Barton?"

"So I can hit things – and people – with arrows."

Barton seems to be suppressing a grin, and now Bond is absolutely sure that the man is playing with him, like a cat with a flute cleaner, pretending it's a mouse. Well, fuck this.

"Seems rather medieval."

"You'd be surprised."

This time, it really is a grin, and suddenly Bond's memory strikes a chord.

"The circus performer. That _is_ you."

Barton stills for a moment, and when he answers, it's in a tone that makes it clear the subject is not up for discussion.

"Was."

They sink back into silence, and Bond spends the remainder of the trip to Bletchley picturing the aneurysm M is likely to suffer when she learns that her (apparent) prize asset has been matched up with a former carnival attraction. He can actually imagine it rather well, and is almost chortling when he pulls off the M1.

He banks the car into the small parking lot of the building that houses Q division – now that the original Bletchley Park is a bloody museum – and pulls the key out of the ignition.

"This is where we get our fishing equipment."

They have a brief argument when Barton insists on taking his bow inside ("I never leave her unattended!") but Bond knows when to fight his battles, and when to give in. Let the man take his archaic toy; maybe Q will give him one of those finely calibrated contemptuous snorts.

Normally, Q meets field agents in London, but since they were headed north anyway, it made sense to just stop by. Besides, Bond is still pissed off about his last mission, when Q fopped him off with nothing more useful than a watch that functioned as a two-way transmitter. (Okay, so it enabled backup to get there before the pokers were red-hot, but still.) Confronting Q in his own lair, he reasons, might produce something more tactically useful, apart from saving time. Like going to the store instead of relying on home delivery.

But now, with Barton in tow, he's no longer so sure.

"The guy's name is really Q? Like that dude from Star Trek?"

"Q is short for Quartermaster."

He can practically see Barton's mental gears assimilating this new information, and grinding it down to the intellectual sawdust it is.

"What do you do when you run out of letters? Stop giving out jobs? No, wait. That's when you go to numbers. Although if it's a hierarchy thing, it doesn't make sense that your boss is M, and not A. Unless M stands for 'Mom', which trumps everything? Help me out here?"

Truth be told, Bond himself has never quite figured out the logic behind MI-6's nomenclature, but he's not about to admit that to a foreigner – besides, it's probably classified. Fortunately, Barton gets side-tracked by screaming metal detectors and a swarm of security guys; Bond lets him squirm a little before deploying his Open Sesame badge.

Q's toyshop is filled with tools, monitors, and shiny things that Bond has no idea what they might be, but that never fail to quietly impress him. By contrast Barton seems right at home and is drawn to one of the tables like a magnet, picking up a tiny screwdriver and staring at it with a squint.

"This is candy land, man," he says. "Can we come back here sometime? Got a couple of ideas for my arrowheads that our R&D section won't let me play with. Maybe …"

"Hey, you, _Mister _– don't touch anything."

The normally diffident voice sounds slightly alarmed.

"Please, put that down."

Q still looks like he is about fifteen years old; Bond has almost reconciled himself to the fact that this is unlikely to ever change. Barton doesn't seem fazed.

"He even looks like Q," he informs Bond as their contact comes closer. "Q junior. You know, the kid with the attitude? Oh, come on. You Brits don't get Star Trek?"

Apparently, Q has excellent ears, and an affinity.

"Who's your favourite Captain?" he asks by way of response, and before any kind of formal introduction can be made they're off and speaking a language that to Bond might as well be Greek.

Except, he actually speaks Greek. Well, whatever.

"Janeway," Barton parries the question. "I like strong women. Especially redheads. You?"

"Picard, all the way. You surprise me, Agent Barton," Q replies. "I would have had you pegged for a Kirk man, based on what Moneypenny told me about you."

Bond doesn't have time for this.

"Do you have anything for us besides the rods, Q?" he almost snaps.

Q gives him that down-the-nose look that always makes Bond want to bash it in, for the sheer pleasure of watching the guy bleed.

"Do you know anything about geology, 007?" Q asks, and damned if it doesn't sound like a pre-emptive condemnation, or at the very least a pointed challenge.

"Layman's knowledge," Bond replies. "BBC specials. Plus, I was into volcanoes when I was a kid."

"Just what I read on the plane," Barton says at almost the same time, casting a not-quite apologetic look at Bond. Of course, S.H.I.E.L.D. would have given him a head start on briefing materials. _Damn_.

"Coulson found me something on the extraction industry and a book on the geology of the Scottish islands."

He pauses briefly, glances sideways at Q, grins and adds, "Nice pictures."

"In other words, no," Q sighs heavily. "I suspected as much. And it's _isles. _Scottish _isles._"

He strides over to one of the stations and picks up a small box.

"This is a portable seismograph. It registers subterranean events down to two kilometers, and pinpoints their origin on the surface to an accuracy of within ten meters. It will help you find out when and where your Bad People are carrying out whatever experiments they are. And so you don't miss it, it will ping, like a cellphone with a message."

"Does it distinguish between man-made and naturally occurring events?"

Obviously, Barton has done a bit more than look at the pictures in his book; that question was downright smart. Q must have come to the same conclusion, and frowns.

"Not definitively, but that shouldn't be necessary. Seismic events in the Western Isles are rare and low-level; the area is very old and no longer geologically very active. But if you have any doubts, the device can be linked to the seismic interpretation software at the British Geological Survey, through any laptop with internet access."

This is quite possibly the longest speech Bond has ever heard from Q, and it pisses him off that it's not directed at him.

"That it?" he asks, allowing his disappointment in today's gadgetry to radiate from his voice.

Q harrumphs a little.

"Of course I also have your fishing rods, as per M's request. Carbon fiber, expandable, extra flexible, for insertion into curving fissures or tubing. You can attach a miniature camera to the tip. Infrared or optical. I trust you didn't expect a fish finder, too."

Bond heads for the corner pointed out by Q, and to two disassembled, pretty normal-looking fishing rods and a couple of tackle boxes. He opens one of the boxes and drops the seismograph inside.

"Cameras in here?"

Q nods.

"Careful with the hooks. They're pointy."

Bond takes a quick inventory of the collection of shiny, oddly shaped lures and bobbers, clicks the tackle box shut and turns to Barton.

"You ever do any fly fishing?"

Barton shakes his head.

"Nope. I prefer take out. Besides, I live in New York."

Bond sighs.

"Some people fish for fun, Barton, not food, and to get away from places like New York. But I guess you can be my ignorant American cousin, being introduced to the pleasures of the countryside and learning how to cast."

"Casting? That involve throwing something at a target, with a string attached?"

"Not exactly, but … yes. In a manner of speaking."

"Think I'll be fine then. Bow and arrows, remember? Strings and projectiles."

"Fly fishing is a far cry from archery. It's a skill."

"Archery?" Q cuts in unexpectedly. "You do archery, Agent Barton? I belong to the Society for Creative Anachronism. We have an archery section in our local chapter. I was thinking of signing up."

And before Bond knows it, Q makes Barton open that box of his, revealing an oddly mechanical-looking quiver and the shortest bow he has ever seen – until a quick snap of Barton's wrist turns it into an instrument that is as sleek and graceful as it looks lethal. Bond finds himself wondering just what his counterpart does for S.H.I.E.L.D.; the thing does look rather purpose-built, albeit not something you would bring to a covert op.

Q is positively babbling with excitement now, running his fingers down the black, shimmering metal with a lover's reverence. It seems almost impossible to separate him from the thing, so Barton ends up giving him one of his arrowheads when Bond reminds them both rather brusquely of the long drive ahead.

"Fascinating," Q crows as he holds the triangular head between his thumb and forefinger, peering into its hollowed-out inside. He's talking to himself now, ignoring his visitors as if they never existed.

"That was interesting," Bond says as they head out to the parking lot. "I've never seen him quite that … voluble."

Barton shrugs, puts his box back behind the seat and swings himself into the low-slung car with a lanky grace, barely hiding a grin.

"No call to be jealous. Vera has that effect on people," he says, his expression unreadable. "Timeless sex appeal."

_Vera? _Right. Time to get serious. Bond picks up his smartphone, and speed dials Headquarters.

"Hey. It's me. Q just gifted us with some fishing rods, and a fucking seismograph. Tell me again why we're not bringing a geologist to this thing, instead of just me and a guy with a bow?"

Barton doesn't even twitch.

"Funny you should ask, Bond," Eve answers into his ear without skipping a beat at the bow reference, although he can practically hear her putting that on her mental to-be-followed-up-on list. There are reasons why Eve Moneypenny is one of his favourite people, lousy aim with a gun notwithstanding.

"M decided to change the mission parameters a bit, _after_ our guests left. You'll be joined at the lodge sometime tomorrow by Dr. Naida Ramirez, a post-doctoral fellow with the British Geological Survey. She is working on a paper on _Caledonian_…"

Eve hesitates a little, tries again.

"_Caledonian ig … neous intrusions in Britain's Paleozoic ..._ Don't make me say it out loud, Bond. Anyway, her security clearance is only 'enhanced reliability'. Her Top Secret is being fast-tracked, but in the meantime there's a lot you won't be able to talk about with her. She will function as your consultant, though, for when you have technical questions."

"A grad student?"

"Post-doc, Bond, _post-doc_. It pays to listen. MI-6 doesn't keep geologists on staff; most of the shit we deal with moves at faster than glacial speed. This one's a serious expert though, I'm told, and was available on twenty-four hours' notice. Oh, and at M's request, S.H.I.E.L.D. has _not _been advised of this development. She's getting on a train first thing in the morning, and is quite excited about working for MI-6. Please do _not _use that as one of your pick-up lines, Bond. Have a nice day."

Bond chooses to ignore that last bit; par for the course with him and Moneypenny. He used to think the snarky remarks she makes about his interest in gorgeous women was jealousy, but she's turned him down a couple of times, so that can't be it.

But having a request answered before he could even make it? Working for an organization of competent professionals has its advantages. He suppresses a satisfied smile, and considers at what point he might be obliged to brief bow-and-arrow man beside him on this development.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 **

_**Barton**_

From London to Mallaig is almost six hundred miles, and much of it not on highways where the Aston Martin can shine; there's no way they'll make the last ferry to Skye. Somewhere north of Birmingham the excitement of riding shotgun in a snazzy car wears off, especially since Bond won't let him drive it, and Clint asks himself for the umpteenth time why the hell they didn't just take the fucking QuinJet.

Eventually he just has to let it out.

"You know, I could have flown us to Inverness in half an hour."

"You fly? Planes? Choppers?"

Clint rolls his eyes. If that's all Bond gets out of his complaint, that he knows how to fly – well, that's not good enough. Obviously, the point needs to be hammered home with a pile driver.

"Yes I do. Any of the above. And I genuinely wish I was doing it now."

Bond swerves around some road kill. Long, thin – do they have weasels in Britain? Outside politics?

"The place we're headed for is one of the most exclusive fishing lodges in the UK. They'll like this car. It's part of the cover."

Clint's bullshit meter dips into the red. Arriving in a private chopper would have had the same effect, for fewer hours of his time.

"What you're really saying, Bond, is you wanted to take this baby for a spin. Can't say I can blame you, but man – that's a lot of hours with limited legroom, and you don't even serve peanuts. So what gives?"

Bond grinds his jaw a little, and then comes out with something that may just be the truth.

"Last time I took her up here, she had to have twelve thousand quid's worth of body work done. I wanted to see whether she still had it in her."

Now that's something Clint can almost see – almost – and he nods sagely, until Bond continues.

"Plus, for some reason our bosses wanted us to have a chance to …"

"Bond?"

Clint really, really can't resist that one, especially if he's been made to suffer just so his counterpart gets the chance to drive his Precious for a stretch. The comment earns him a glare and resentful silence. Which is actually better than just silence, since it comes with a win of sorts.

Conversation having been exhausted for the time being, Clint looks out of the window and counts cows – they're evenly divided between light brown ones, and those black and white ones from the milk cartons – and sheep. A lot more sheep than he's ever seen in his life, apart from that op in New Zealand. Lamb for dinner might be okay, assuming they don't have decent Chinese in Scotland.

He yawns, and it isn't the jetlag. Fuck, this is boring.

Another few miles, and Clint desperately wishes he was at least driving the car. Something. _Anything. _There's some people he can just be with for hours when nothing's happening, find his zen and not have the slightest problem. But this guy? Not one of them.

Maybe it's that whole Brit-versus-Yank thing, where you feel you have something to prove, just because they talk like Alan Rickman on a snotty day. Although Bond doesn't actually do that. Still, the guy is a legend in certain circles, so maybe it's that? Well, whatever.

It works both ways, though, this expectation thing, and not in a good way. What the fuck had moved him to say his bow's name was Vera? Well, okay, why 'Vera' _specifically_ is pretty obvious; whoever cancelled Firefly should be terminated with extreme prejudice, best thing since Star Trek - but why pretend he calls his bow anything at all? Part of the cowboy act Brits seem to expect from Americans, or someone like Bond from an agent who didn't go to spy school, just shoots things? And Hawkeye dutifully delivered. _Fuck._

Still, as they head further North and the landscape opens up, Clint finds himself humming "_You Can't Take The Sky From Me_," and smirks when Bond casts him an annoyed look.

"So how's that bonding thing going for you so far, Commander? Feeling the old team vibe yet?"

"I generally prefer to work alone," Bond says, rather unnecessarily.

"Yeah, you made that clear already. That makes two of us. Oh, wait! Mutual ground, right here. See, it's working already."

Bond remains pretty stone-faced; either the guy has no sense of humour, or else he's got the most deadpan face since Phil Coulson. Or Clint himself, for that matter. More _common ground_?

Another hundred miles or so of silent tolerance, and the landscape turns into something quite different and unexpected. Wide vistas of green fields, edged by hedgerows or ancient walls and ringed in the distance by mountains tinged with purple. It's hard to believe that this is the same island that has Oxford Street on it (not to mention the Northern Line, of which Clint has deeply unpleasant memories from a previous op involving some extremist ideologue).

"Reminds me a bit of Afghanistan, this place," he says almost to himself. "The good bits, that is."

Bond shifts a little in his seat.

"You served?"

For the first time since they left Q, the guy seems interested in actually having a conversation, to the point where he asks a question. Doesn't mean Clint has to make it easy though.

"Yup."

Interestingly enough, Bond actually bites.

"Which service?"

"Army. Special Ops, Operation Enduring Freedom, '01 to '03. Was there they tagged me to join S.H.I.E.L.D. You?"

The _Commander _thing kind of gives it away, but who knows what the Brits use for service ranks, and where. (Took Clint a while to figure out just what kind of animal a "Leff-tenant" was, back in Helmand.) Bond guns the car around a truck and an SUV with delusions of speed.

"Naval reserve. Not much use for the Navy in Afghanistan. Or in anything these days, except piracy, sanctions enforcement and political posturing."

"Yeah, your lot hasn't seen much action lately," Clint agrees. He's a fair guy though, so he adds, "But when you do engage it's all or nothing, isn't it. At least when the Army fucks up we don't all drown."

As they get further north and west, the scenery gets wilder, older, more desolate. The hillsides are rust-coloured, as if something's taken the vegetation and left only the occasional green and purple patch, like the bruises of ancient battles. Still, Clint can almost imagine himself back in Iowa, the sky is that big, and he feels a twinge of … something (envy?) as he watches the hawks glide on the thermals and off the mountain sides.

Those mountains are really something else. Wide and open, almost like they want to expand your mind. According to the GPS on Clint's smartphone, they're pretty much all called Ben Something. Glens are valleys, apparently - including the Great Glen, an ancient fissure that almost slices Britain in half. A lot of geology happened here back in the day, tectonic and volcanic, according to his book. Now all that activity is done, though, and the mountains are old and worn.

"Is it like this all the way up to Skye?" he asks.

"Pretty much," Bond replies, his voice curiously tight. _Personal history_? "The hills close in a bit in places, and then you get to the sea."

"Wonder what HYDRA wants with this place, other than isolation. I mean, if there was anything up here, you guys would have found it and used it up hundreds of years ago, right? One of the books I read said there used to be tin in Cornwall, and it's pretty much all gone."

They're actually talking about the mission now – rehearsing their cover stories, figuring out excuses for wandering onto the supposed HYDRA estate from their lodge (river fishing!), stuff like that. But some fifty miles from their stopping point for the night the clouds start to close in, and pretty soon the ceiling is so low you can almost touch it and then the rain starts pelting down. Bond has to really focus to keep his car on the road, and there's fuck all Clint can do except be grateful that the Aston Martin isn't a convertible.

They spend the night at a small inn in Mallaig where the beer and food (pub grub, Bond calls it) are pretty good – no, scratch that, the beer is pretty fucking awesome – and there's a little fire going that doesn't seem out of place, even though it's June.

"Taking Vera to bed?" Bond calls after Clint when they head for their respective rooms. Clint just frowns at him blankly.

"Vera?"

Of course he remembers - as soon as Bond gives him that _gotcha_ grin.

_Shit._

…..

Simply put, Skye has got to be one of the most stunningly gorgeous places Clint has ever seen. People don't usually give him credit for appreciating beauty – he's the uneducated carnie, right? – but that mixture of sweeping hills and water, those jagged mountains and tall rocks sticking out like the bones of the Earth, does something twisty to his gut and he finds himself breathing more deeply. His job usually sends him to urban shitholes or war zones, and this is orders of magnitude beyond Mogadishu.

And so, when Bond suggests that they spend the morning after check-in at the lodge consolidating their cover by actually doing a spot of fishing, Clint is pretty happy to agree, even though those stupid rubber boots Coulson procured for him are hell to walk in.

The rods Q has provided are first-class (or so Bond says, Clint wouldn't know the difference) and he spends a few minutes feeling his, the length, the flex, the weight in his hand. He does the same with the lure Bond hands him, first in his hand, tossing it up, then on the rod, feeling the difference - and gets ready to try that whole casting thing out.

"So where should I put it?" Clint asks, and the next few minutes has Bond get progressively more pissed off as he puts the lure into the exact same spot five times in a row, into a still area close to some rocks.

"You _have_ done this before," Bond finally concludes, after a couple of middling attempts on his part to get close to those rocks.

"Nope. Projectiles and strings, like I said."

Bond keeps looking after the line and the lure as they weave through the air instead of focusing on the target, which is something Clint will never understand when people do it. It's the target that matters, no? (He never looks after his arrows' flight either, once he's decided where they will end up.) Clint tries to explain this but it's like they're speaking a different language, or maybe Bond just doesn't appreciate being told how fly fishing really works by a total rookie.

Finally, though, Bond asks a question he's obviously been chewing on: "So, just how good are you with that bow of yours, Barton?"

"I don't miss."

"Ever?" Bond stares at him intently. There is no judgment, no assumption behind the question; he's just looking for mission-relevant information and engaging his internal lie detector via a stare that could etch glass. Clint returns it in kind.

"Nope. Unless I mean to, but then it isn't missing, is it?"

"Huh." The response comes out as a grunt. "You said Special Ops. Sniper?"

"Yep."

"Huh."

Bond nods curtly and, to all appearances, slots the information into his tactical data bank, where he seems to be mulling it over right up until the moment where some fish actually falls for Clint's shiny. He unhooks it (Q was right about those hooks … _shit, that hurt_) and throws it back, because there's no point in killing things when you don't actually have to, is there?

The whole experience is actually quite enjoyable, especially as they're doing it on their respective employers' clock.

And then, almost as a bonus, the seismograph goes off in the tackle box on the rock.

"Magnitude 2.4 event," Bond notes as he studies the little gizmo. It's got two settings, one digital, providing the read-out, and one showing zigzag lines on a graph like you see in the movies, except without that dramatic needle. "And see here, there's a smaller one, 1.8, just before."

"Action and reaction?" Clint asks. "Or two separate events? And for the record, I felt vibrations through my feet, but only the second one. Like a heavy truck drove by."

Bond shrugs in response to the question, and sets the thing down on the ground.

The epicenter is indicated at about three-quarters of a mile away, which coincides with the tract of land acquired by Marquardt and his minions for their "explorations". They're still staring at the seismograph when it twitches again, one-two, 2.0 and 2.8 this time, and this time Clint feels something more, like an odd internal displacement.

"What?" Bond asks.

"Balance," is Clint's reply. "Mine's pretty good. And it changed there for a second. As if the ground … shifted, or something. Felt pretty weird. Not normal."

When Clint suggests lunch followed by some more fishing upriver, in the direction of the seismograph's readings, Bond doesn't argue.

…..

A turn in the river, and it broadens into something the concierge called Loch Dún – not particularly impressive as lakes go, but sufficiently wide that the Black Cuillin ridge stands out behind it against the pale grey sky like a line of jagged teeth.

The grey stone mansion that supposedly contains Marquardt and his merry men sits on the water's edge at the far side; a number of vehicles – including a good number of ATVs – are parked in the front. Behind the slightly dilapidated main stone building are a number of semi-circular metal huts; the kind of Grandson of Quonset that the military uses in temporary locations, to house everything from soldiers to equipment it doesn't want to be seen from the air.

Both men use their casting to move closer, wading along the shore. There's a fence to keep hikers out on the banks, but it doesn't go into the lake - an obvious weakness in the compound's defence that is attended to by two SUVs that come careening down the bank. A couple of men get out of each vehicle; Clint spots movement behind the tinted windows that suggests that they have reinforcements.

"You! Anglers!" hollers one of them, a short, fat man in a dark trench coat and round glasses. "Private property. No trespassing." His accent sounds German, with an overlay of something else. Not a total cliché, then, but close. The Euro 2.0 version of an ideology founded on superiority and entitlement.

"Our apologies," Bond shouts back. "We bought a license for the week. Nobody said anything about not fishing here."

Clint nods eagerly. Hell, he can do country bumpkin with the best of them. His accent is almost as thick as his smile.

"Salmon and trout. Caught me a big one this morning, but he – or she –got away. This looks like the best water for them."

He hopes that anglers say stuff like that; judging by Bond's non-reaction, they do. And as if on cue he has another strike. The four men glower and stare as he reels it in, but seem sufficiently interested that they don't stop him. Bond hands him the landing net, and Clint puts on the most innocent face he can muster and heads out of the water towards Short Guy.

The fact that the other three are momentarily reaching for something in their pockets, before relaxing at the sight of his blissfully moronic expression, is not lost on Clint. Dumb innocence seems the way to go.

"Here," he says, offering the still wiggling net to Short Guy. "With our apologies. Have some dinner. Sorry it's not big enough for all of you."

The man snorts in contempt.

"Keep that slimy creature," he snarls. "Leave, and don't come back. I'll have words with those idiots at the lodge about keeping their customers away from our property."

"Nice guy," Clint says when he gets back to Bond, after releasing his latest prize. They make a show of wading back slowly, past the fence, not bothering to look back until the sound of receding engines indicates that the watchdogs have gone. "I suppose you noticed the gun grab on the others?"

By way of response Bond hauls out his smartphone. He taps a few strokes into it, pushes send.

"License plates," he notes laconically. "Anything from the close-up?"

"Well, the guy reminded me of the one that had the meltdown in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'. You seen it? Coulson says that was based on an actual incident with HYDRA, back in the day. Really pissed them off, that movie, and threats were made. Why the sequels sucked so badly. Anyway, this guy could have been that melting guy's cousin. Set off every smoke alarm I got. There's fire there, for sure."

Bond stares at him long and hard – another one of those lie detector looks, and seems to be making a decision of some kind.

"Fine," he says. "How's the jetlag, Barton? Up for some exploring tonight, after we meet our geologist?"

Clint raises one of his eyebrows.

"Jetlag is for amateurs. What geologist?"

…..

Dinner at the Loch Dún Lodge is a pretty spectacular affair – depending on your point of view, of course.

Given that it charges the equivalent of fifteen hundred bucks for a twenty-four-hour fishing license (accommodation and meals not included), the Lodge obviously thinks it has to offer extravagant food. Clint finds himself staring at plates with tiny arrangements that could double as abstract paintings. Bond looks on, all suave sophistication and detached amusement, as Clint fidgets with some elaborate, sauce-drizzled tower of thinly sliced vegetables that he's pretty sure he won't know how to spell.

"Fuck, man, whatever happened to the concept of a nice, rare steak and fries? Don't tell me you like this shit."

Bond snorts, shovels a forkful of the offending creation into his mouth, and motions over to the waiter, who bears a discreet badge labeling him as "Iain".

"Would you have a plain hunk of protein for my American friend here? I believe he's rather unimpressed by_ nouvelle cuisine_."

As it turns out, Iain – who studies Gaelic culture and media on the island and works at the Lodge mostly for the free lodging that comes with – is not unsympathetic to Clint's plight. He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with the news that yes, Mr. Barton may lay claim to a practically bleeding hunk of Angus beef for his main course. This leads to a discussion of tradition versus innovation, and with a shortage of guests, their new friend is also happy to share his views on the goings-on across the lake.

"The government is pretty keen on oil," Iain opines. "Anything that'll help them stick it to London, I guess. But if they come up with anything like those offshore oil finds here, the island is toast. No more fish, no more unspoiled landscape, no more tourists. No more Skye."

Both agents nod their sympathy with these sentiments; after all, those are the things they came here for. And so, in a slightly more conspiratorial tone, Iain adds in his Scottish burr, "There's folks here thinking of setting up for some civil disobedience, if it comes to that. Like what my parents did when they first opened the bridge to the Kyle of Lochalsh. Fat lot of good that did, though."

"They doing any blasting over there?" Clint wants to know, pointing a thumb in the direction of Loch Dún. Iain shrugs.

"Not sure, but there's rumblings ever so often. And one night I think I saw a flash, but that may have been lightning. It's been an odd summer. I tried to go and have a look on my day off, but they're not keen on visitors."

The rest of the meal passes relatively amicably; there's no point in rushing things as the light lasts a long time this far north and both agree that any further recce will have to be done under cover of darkness.

They're just lingering over after-dinner drinks – a martini for Bond, a double espresso for Clint – when the most gorgeous woman Clint has ever clapped eyes on walks into the sparsely populated room and heads straight for their table.

She is relatively short but athletically built, dressed in casual, pleated trousers and practical shoes; the simple, loose top accentuates some very nice curves without drawing excessive attention to them. But the thing that really strikes Clint – and Bond too, he can hear the soft intake of the man's breath – is her hair. Flaming red, it frames her pale face like a soft, burning halo, a perfect complement to creamy skin and sea-green eyes.

"Mister Bond and Mister Barton, I presume?" she asks in a voice that is as musical as it is smoky and sexy. She doesn't wait for their acknowledgment.

"I'm Naida Ramirez. I hear you require professional help."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

_**Bond**_

"The geologist whose coming was foretold to us?" Bond asks with his most charming smile, glad that he'd decided to brief Barton. Doing so only now might have been … awkward.

"That would be me," she smiles. "May I sit?"

Nobody raises any objections, and she sits down, moving with a mixture of athletic grace and elegance. A woman who climbs over rocks for a living but cultivates her feminine side, Bond muses; he likes what he sees. And that hair …

"Ramirez?" Barton asks by way of introduction. "You don't look or sound very Hispanic."

Whatever his counterpart's skills and qualifications, Bond considers, subtlety and tact are probably not among them.

Ramirez tosses her flaming curls in a gesture Bond recognizes instantly for what it is: a fuck you, rather than a come on. Way to go, Hawkeye.

"My ex's name," she says coolly.

"Seriously?" Barton frowns, and Bond wonders whether his companion is being simply oblivious to human courtesy, or deliberately offensive. "My ex wouldn't even take mine while we were married. She sure as hell wouldn't have kept it when we called it quits."

Naida Ramirez turns to the other agent, and Bond has the feeling that she runs her eyes over him in a very quick assessment, even though her pupils barely move. He suppresses the desire to ask her what she sees. It's not that he has any plans for this woman (they've only just met), but you never know – plus, there's the principle of the thing.

Her look implies – no, actually spells out, in bright green neon lights – a clear '_and who could blame that ex of yours for that?' _What she says by way of explanation, though, is something else entirely, and explains the faint Slavic lilt in her voice.

"My maiden name is Assylmuratova."

"Oh. Right."

Barton flashes her an understanding grin; it alters his face, and Bond can see the briefest, involuntary reaction in Ramirez' eyes in response. But then Barton sinks into a watchful silence, almost visibly detaching himself from the conversation,and Bond steps into the vacuum.

"Well, we're certainly glad you're here," he says, in his warmest voice. The woman is a budding academic, not a seasoned operative, and surely a bit of basic human courtesy won't come amiss. Ramirez turns her brilliant eyes on him as he continues. "I assume you've been briefed about this mission?"

Naida's mood changes instantly; her grin turns a little impish, her eyes reflecting a rather enchanting excitement.

"I know MI-6 hired me, because that's what it says on my contract. But I only have 'reliability' clearance, from a summer job with the Home Office, so they only told me that you guys might have questions on the geology of Skye. Not _why_. Or what exactly you're doing here. That was 'need to know', they said. And apparently I don't need to know, in order to help you out."

The last words are whispered in a conspiratorial tone, to which she adds just the slightest wink.

"I assume it's some kind of spooky stuff. But honestly, post-doc pay sucks. The folks at the institute think you should be happy working for a paragraph on your CV, not food or shelter. The extra cash will come in handy. Besides – working for the government is bound to get your foot into some doors, you know?"

She casts a sideways look at Barton, who is leaning back in his chair, following her chatter over the brim of his cup.

"I guess you, Mr. Bond, are the one working for … you know, _the Crown_." She makes air quotes with her fingers – something Bond is prepared to overlook, given the ironic smile that accompanies them. "Which makes your friend here what, exactly? He doesn't sound British anymore than I'm Hispanic."

"Colleague from the U.S.," Bond replies vaguely, finding himself irrationally pleased that she doesn't address the question to Barton directly. He signals Iain, the waiter, and raises a questioning eyebrow towards Ramirez. "What's your pleasure, Dr. Ramirez?"

"Whatever you're having," she smiles, pointing at Bond's martini, leaning slightly towards him. Barton doesn't seem to take any notice of the fact that he's being left out. He just sits there, sipping his espresso, watching the comings and goings in the room and occasionally running his eyes across their attractive tablemate. Some day, Bond will figure out what makes that man tick; right now, he can't bring himself to care.

The swirl of air created by the waiter's arrival with their drinks (and a third espresso for Barton, whose guts must be made of stainless steel) sends the slightest scent of fragrance Bond's way. His nostrils flare involuntarily. It's a sensible smell, only slightly floral, created for efficient women who know what they want. He likes it, but it's distracting.

It's time to talk shop.

"You'll know then that we are wondering what someone could be drilling for here on the Isle of Skye. I've never heard that it might be a location for oil deposits. What else is there?"

Naida shrugs.

"Not much, frankly; the conditions aren't right for hydrocarbon deposits. Much of this area is granite, with the occasional igneous intrusions conducive – I wrote my thesis on those, did you know that? Anyway, they lend themselves to certain micro minerals or crystals where there are cavities, but none of that comes in sufficient quantities to be of interest to anyone other than collectors. Nothing of industrial quantity or value."

"What type of minerals and crystals?" Bond wants to know, hoping there's something in there he'll recognize. It's been years since he's been to the Geological Museum, and that was to prevent a heist in the precious stone collection.

"Zircon, fluorite, epidote, quartz, some feldspars."

The list is pretty meaningless to him, except for one item.

"Zircon. Isn't that related to diamonds?"

"Cubic zirconia are sometimes used as substitutes for diamonds for people who can't afford the real thing, or who don't know any better." Naida frowns, probably at the idiocy of amateurs. Bond can relate. "And they _can_ be found in the proximity of kimberlite pipes."

"Which are the primary source of diamond deposits."

Barton's voice comes as a surprise, he's been quiet for that long, and Bond recalls belatedly that the man claimed to have read a bit about geology on the plane. (Show-off.)

"True," Naida replies, her voice no longer frosty. Quite the contrary, really. Maybe she has forgiven Barton his earlier indiscretion? She doesn't seem the sort to hold a grudge, and meeting someone on their own turf can go a ways to break the ice. In fact, the gaze she allows to linger on Barton contains a considerable amount of heat and Bond wonders for a moment what, if anything, the man will do with that.

"But that's where the similarities end. Kimberlite may increase the chances that you find zircon crystals, but the presence of zircon doesn't improve the likelihood that there's a kimberlite pipe. And there has never been any evidence of kimberlite in the British islands."

Barton fixes her with one of his intense stares. He seems to have missed his visual cue entirely; his own body language hasn't changed one bit. Interesting, given the way he seemed to have deliberately provoked her earlier. Bond could have sworn where there's smoke …

Well, well.

"Then _what_?" Barton asks. "If there's nothing here, why get a license to take samples? Most outfits don't do this until they already have an idea that there might be something there. Too expensive otherwise. So what could they be after?"

Naida drains her martini, and swishes the liquid around in her mouth appreciatively.

"I have absolutely no idea," she says, smiling brightly, and holds her glass out over the table. "But I'd love to help you find out. Olive anyone? I can't stand the things."

…..

Three hours later, under the cover of darkness and a steady rain, Bond finds himself following Barton as the man strides across the uneven, vegetation-encrusted ground as if he were walking on a New York street. Maybe they should call him Owleye instead? At least the speed stops the early October chill from getting in their bones, and being behind the guy reduces the chance of ankle twisting.

Both men are dressed in black and, despite their waxed Barbour jackets (Barton's smells brand new), they are soaked right through already. Being able to take the ground rather than wading down the river brings them to the fence of the estate rather faster, but that's where things stop being easy.

"Electric?" Bond asks, as well he might; the thing is shining metal, obviously new, and looks pretty high-tech for the Scottish countryside.

Barton runs his hand along the metal mesh, a centimeter or so away, feeling for that telltale hum.

"Doesn't feel like it," he says. "Doesn't mean it isn't, though. Possibly wired to a motion detector, although vibration sensitivity would kind of suck with all the rain you guys get up here. It'd have to be calibrated to detect only higher interference, like deer running into the fence. Or environmental activists."

Bond nods.

"What we need is a distraction. Our friend Iain and his dreams of civil disobedience. Let's get ahead of the locals a bit, and start an eco-terrorist movement. You don't happen to have any explosives on you?"

"I like the way you think, Commander. And yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

Barton's grin is a little disconcerting, as is the speed with which he unsnaps that bow of his and lines up an arrow.

"An arrow? How's that going to help?"

"Watch and learn, Commander. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s very own R&D department at work. Get ready to get cold and wet again."

He lets fly, almost directly parallel to the fence and turns towards the lake before the arrow has finished half its arc, motioning Bond to follow. A few seconds later, a small fireball explodes on the fence line several hundred meters away. Bond only looks at it for the briefest of moments, shakes his head and wades in the water. Thank goodness for neoprene underwear.

"Handy gadget, that bow of yours," he has to admit.

"Best thing with those explosive heads?" Barton responds, and there's no mistaking the smug undertone in his voice. "No footprints, and the evidence self-destructs. They'll be scratching their heads for hours."

They emerge on the banks of the lake, just as the first lights of a number of cars flash through the night, bouncing on uneven terrain as they head in the direction of the explosion. Bond strides quickly towards the outermost of the Quonset huts, gratified that Barton follows him without argument.

The place looks deserted on the outside – not surprising, given the pelting rain. There are no external lights, the operators having clearly opted for lack of visibility to casual observation.

"Their security must be all on the inside," Bond notes. Makes sense, given the fence; this seems like an outfit that likes to dispose of any security issues up close and personal.

"So go have a look. Anyone comes out, I keep them off your back. Easy-peasy."

Bond gives the matter a moment's thought, then nods. Sometimes the less sophisticated a plan the better; that silent bow has its advantages, even if Barton seems a tad cavalier about using it.

He heads for the nearest one of the huts – a tempting target, with the front door slightly ajar, without another word. His body pressed against the corrugated metal, Bond inches towards the crack in the door and risks a peek inside when he doesn't sense any movement.

The interior is well lit – and rather odd, for a geological exploration site. On either side of the hut are stacks of metal barrels. One stack is rather large, consisting of approximately five dozen fifty-litre barrels, while the other one has only a tenth that number. In between is a pile of crates of differing sizes.

Bond returns to his position beside the door, readies the little camera and turns to snap a couple of pictures of the interior for analysis in London. One, two, three and he turns away again.

_Easy-peasy._

Well, maybe not _that_ easy. His way back towards Barton is blocked by two bodies, each with an arrow sticking out of an eye socket. _Huh._ Bond adjusts his jacket and keeps walking.

The other huts aren't going to be that easy, unfortunately. All the doors are closed, and there are no windows on the sides. There is, however, something resembling a skylight in each of the huts; not a common feature in these things, but depending what goes on inside, possibly necessary for air circulation. A couple of them are open, with raised lids preventing too much rain from getting in.

He returns to Barton, has apparently considered the matter while removing … obstacles.

"Could do some fishing with that camera."

"You're thinking of casting a line down one of those skylights?"

"Sure. Easy shot, provided the line is long enough. Fifty meters of pay-out should do it."

Cocky bastard. Crack shot or not, he's been casting less than half a day. Of course, he's also forgetting something rather elementary.

"Even assuming you're as good as you think you are, Barton, how are you going to get the line back out of the vent? Ever got one caught in the weeds? You can pull all you want, that lure won't go around corners."

Barton frowns as the truth of what Bond is saying hits home.

"Fuck. Guess one of us has to get up top then."

"Unfortunately, I'm fresh out of ladders. Any bright idea?"

Apparently, Barton does.

"Grappling arrow, steel line. The rain on the metal should mask any noise."

Huh. Those arrows do come in handy. Bond doesn't think to question what gadget could bite into corrugated steel; he assumes Barton has that angle covered.

"Sounds good. I'll go up; you keep holding off strays?"

Barton thinks for a moment – he's probably not a natural at delegating the exciting stuff anymore than Bond is – but finally nods. The arrow he fires off from the perimeter of the compound goes almost straight up in the air before plummeting down and landing beside one of the vents.

As he climbs up, Bond is more than grateful for his gloves. The thin line is better used for abseiling, with a proper carabine hook, than it is for climbing up. That said, whoever developed that arrow should have a chat with Q. Now _there's_ a gadget.

Flattening himself against the curved top of the hut, Bond looks through the narrow opening afforded by the lid. It really is nothing more than a vent, and the angle is pretty sharp; nonetheless, he can get a partial view of a large metal construction in the centre. A large metal casing with numerous gauges, levers and switches is attached to a squat rig, with what looks like a hydraulic pump in its centre. The rig is almost as high as the roof of the hut; the center part appears to extend into the soil like a metal proboscis. The whole thing looks like an oilrig without the pump.

Bond is quite willing to accept that even if his line of sight allowed him an overview of the entire assembly, he would have no real idea what he is looking at – that's why M sent him a geologist, after all – and focuses instead on attaching Q's little camera to the fishing line.

It takes a minute in the darkness and driving rain to get the camera to the point where it will actually be able to shoot useful pictures. Silently cursing the raindrops that are running down his neck, Bond lowers the line down about three feet, praying that the knot will hold. Two minutes should do it.

Movement in the hangar causes him to freeze momentarily. Guards, two of them. The camera spins slowly on the fishing line, making a soft whirring noise that he could really have done without. Hopefully it will be drowned out by the sound of the rain, which from inside the structure should sound like a steady drumbeat.

Bond looks at his watch; _two minutes_. The camera has done several spins and if it is is as good as Q's reputation, the footage should yield a virtual tour of the premises for Ms Hopefully Expert to examine. He pulls on the line, watching the camera slowly ascend, still spinning, still whirring.

Until it gets caught in the flashing surrounding the vent.

_Shit._

He winds the line around his finger and tries to get it to swing a little, gleaning what little lift he can from the two inches of free space between the opening and the vent to pull it out. He succeeds on the third attempt, but not without whacking the camera casing on the side of the flashing as it finally yields to his efforts.

"He, hast du das gehört? Das kam von draussen." It wouldn't take a German speaker to guess the meaning of the question – _hey, did you hear that_? _That came from outside _– but Bond's knowledge of the language lets him understand the response as well: "Vielleicht hat das was mit dieser Explosion zu tun?" - _Maybe it has something to do with that explosion?_

The two guards scan the ceiling, seeing nothing, and briefly debate whether they should have a look outside. Having concluded that the matter shouldn't wait for the next perimeter patrol they cock their short submachine guns and head out of Bond's field of vision, presumably for the exit. He pockets the camera and turns back towards the grappling hook.

_Can't leave that here..._ Damn. Well, he won't exactly need it to go down.

Luckily the contraption has a pretty obvious button for disengaging the hooks. He presses it just as the curve of the Quonset hut, the rain-slick surface and the laws of gravity conspire against him. It's all Bond can do to try and jam his gloved fingers into the corrugation ridges so as to control his downward slide a bit.

He lands in a half crouch and rolls instinctively to reduce the force of the impact on his body. The grappling hook bounces off his shoulder as if to add insult to injury; he can only hope that Barton has been keeping an eye on the hangar door.

As it turns out, he need not have worried. In the light of the open door he can see the two guards twist and fall in slow motion, without a sound, and Barton strides out of the shadows.

"That descent was pretty pathetic," he comments as he walks past the still slightly stunned Bond.

Bond has never really worked with a partner before – M tends to let the Double-Oh agents do the lone wolf thing, rather than make them induct others into their working methods. A question of plausible deniability. But silent removal of obstacles on his six? Not … un-useful, that.

Both guards are dressed in green jump suits, decorated with an odd badge on the right arm – what looks like a skull, atop a writhing mess of tentacles.

"I think they got that whole HYDRA symbolism thing backwards," Barton frowns. "Isn't it supposed to be one body, many heads, not the other way around? This thing is way more octopussy than hydraesque. Doesn't give you much confidence in their competence at world domination, does it."

The archer moves to pull an arrow out of the first guy's larynx, then moves over to the second. He repeats the procedure, with the two guards from the first hut, wiping all four arrowheads off on the last man's jacket before returning them to his quiver. Bond is fascinated, if slightly repulsed.

"I'd been wondering what you'd do when you run out of arrows."

"Try not to. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Plus, this way, unless they've got a CSI unit here, chances are they won't know what hit these guys. People don't tend to think _arrows_ until they see them sticking out of their chest."

Too true.

They are still several hundred feet from the lake's shore when they make two simultaneous and equally bothersome discoveries. It's Bond who notices that the flashlights from the explosion site are headed their way; Barton spots the two extra bodies.

"Fuck," Barton whispers, pointing at the outline of two more guards on the ground, both clearly dead, their necks twisted in an unnatural position. "If that double-oh license comes with a quota, I'm not claiming those. Yours?"

"Nope," Bond frowns. It's neat work, and must have been done in absolute silence for Barton not to have heard anything while he stood guard over Bond's recce. "Professional job, though."

"Well, we can try and ID Santa's little helper later. Right now we need to get the hell out of here."

Bond nods his agreement and they glide back into the chilly lake, staying mostly underwater until well past the point of the river outlet. The flashlights bounce across the sodden landscape, along the fence, headed for the riverbank, the lakeshore and the evidence of their night's work.

"I need a hot shower and a drink," Bond sighs when they get back to the lodge, Barton's bow and quiver neatly concealed under his Barbour coat. "Meet in the lounge in twenty minutes? It's probably closed but the night reception staff should be able to serve us a Scotch or something. We can have a look at the footage before showing it to Ramirez in the morning."

Barton nods his consent and disappears into the room, but turns around before sliding his card key in the lock. He cocks his head slightly, like the bird he's named himself after.

"À propos Ramirez," he smirks. "Issey Miyake."

"What?"

"The perfume you were sniffing on her, earlier. Issey Miyake. My ex used it."

Guy doesn't miss much, does he. Maybe Hawkeye isn't such an idiotic name after all.

…..

Twenty-five minutes later, and Bond enters the pretty well deserted lounge only to find Barton already there, seated in a corner with Ramirez. The man must have taken the fastest shower on record, but what the hell is _she _doing, still up?

The two of them are ensconced in an arrangement of those heavy, dark leather seats that spell out _luxurious dignity_ and _country comfort_ in equal measure; a gas fire casts a flickering, warm glow over the scene.

Sure enough, Barton is cradling another coffee already; Ramirez is working on a highball of something red. Campari? Cape Cod? Judging by their body language, Barton isn't into picking up any potential passes, and Ramirez has stopped pitching. His face is closed, guarded even; hers, relaxed.

"Guess you don't drink much, huh?" Bond asks Barton as he drops into the free seat, setting the laptop he brought down on the low wooden table and reaching gratefully into the bowl of crisps provided by the establishment.

Barton shrugs.

"Only beer," he says, "and only when I feel like it. Right now, I don't feel like it."

Bond turns to Ramirez, whose hair is slightly damp. She smells rather nice, a citrusy shampoo and that same perfume.

"I'm surprised to see you still up, Doctor Ramirez," he says, "after that long train ride. I would have thought you'd be in bed. It's almost three a.m."

She gives him a brilliant smile, with a slightly wicked gleam that sends a message straight to his dick.

"Bed sounds good," she purrs. "_Soon, I think. _But your … employer told me they'd cover _all_ my expenses. So I took advantage of the spa facilities here. I had a steam bath, and a sauna, _and_ spent an hour in the Jacuzzi! I can't _wait_ to tell my roommate about this. Oh, and please, do call me Naida, Mr. Bond. Doctor Ramirez sounds so … so stiff."

Bond smiles at her in such a manner as to make his dimples appear. ('_Your secret weapon,_ Moneypenny had called them once, after three pints of cider. Followed by, '_Total dud when it comes to me, of course, so don't even try, Bond.')_ They result in an appreciative gleam from Naida, though.

"James. My name is James."

He turns to Barton almost as an afterthought. Having a guy litter the countryside with dead bodies on your behalf does call for a quantum of civility.

"You have a first name, Barton? Don't think you ever actually told me."

Barton's coffee cup pauses in mid-air and he seems to think his answer over for a moment. Bond doubts that it is to make something up; rather, that he is contemplating whether to gift his companions with his name.

"Clint," he says finally, his tone curiously flat.

"Seriously, _Clint_? As in _Eastwood_? How _very_ American."

Naida's tone leaves no doubt in Bond's mind that this is payback for their earlier exchange. Bond is amused, Barton unfazed.

"My old man was into Westerns. I'm just glad he didn't saddle me with Sergio."

Bond's martini arrives – double olives, a late-night snack – but since Ramirez is here, they might as well do a spot of business. He motions towards the laptop he'd brought for the discussion with Barton with the memory chip from Q's little camera, and raises a questioning eyebrow. Barton shrugs his acquiescence_._

"Freeze frame only," he says. "Not the whole show."

Bond considers this; he wouldn't have picked Barton as a stickler for protocol, but he's probably right. Enhanced reliability isn't much of a security clearance. Ramirez can look at individual images, like a good consultant, but not the whole picture show.

"We'd like you to have a look at a few pictures," Bond says to her. "Tell us what it might be. And I'm sorry, but we can't tell you how or where the footage was obtained. I'm sure you understand."

She gives an endearing wiggle of excitement with her shoulders. Almost as if for his ears only she breathes in that husky voice of hers, "Spook stuff? Too cool."

It's kind of refreshing, actually, dealing with someone who doesn't feel the need to appear blasé or worldly about intelligence, and Bond feels a smile creeping into his eyes. Youthful enthusiasm – how long has it been since he found his line of work … _cool_?

Barton slides out of his seat and moves behind Bond's chair to share the view of the laptop. They wait in silence as the laptop loads. The footage from inside the first Quonset hut comes on, and Barton frowns as he sees the barrels.

"Can you zoom in on those?"

Bond does, and reads out the writing on the larger barrels as it resolves on the screen: "NaM_. _That's nitromethane, if I remember my combustible chemicals."

"And the smaller ones?"

Bond repeats the process.

"EDA something."

Ramirez shrugs to signal her ignorance; Barton frowns.

"Don't remember the proper name of the second one, but I think those two things make up a binary explosive, called PLX, Picaninny-something? The rangers used that stuff in Afghanistan to speed-clear minefields, when they didn't have time for a proper sweep. Using up old WW2 stocks, one guy told me. Don't think it's used much anymore normally."

"Picatinny liquid explosive, you're right," Bond muses. "And yes, it has gone out of fashion. But based on what your boss said, these guys are a bit out of a time warp, aren't they? Maybe they have some old stocks to use up, too."

"So they're planning to do rock blasting?" Ramirez is interested. "Do they even have a license for that?"

"Not that I know of," Bond replies.

"Not that kind of explosive anyway," Barton says. "Mostly used by the military, like I said. Rock blasting, like for tunneling, I think they normally use TNT."

"Like what's in those arrows of yours, Barton?"

Ramirez stills, and cocks an inquiring eyebrow. _Arrows_?

"Nope," Barton says curtly. "Those are courtesy of Stark Industries."

They sit in silence for a moment, but in the absence of bright ideas, Bond advances the video file on the laptop. The footage on the screen is slightly bouncy at first as the camera is being lowered down, and then circles with dizzying speed.

Bond punches in a few commands that reduce the camera's movements to a slow, steady panning of the hangar. The angle shows the apparatus he had observed more clearly, emphasizing both its size and its complexity. Two figures – the hapless, now-deceased guards – move around it in something approaching lockstep. (Another one of those clichés that Barton says HYDRA likes?)

Bond checks to see if Barton noticed, and is rewarded with the slightest of nods. Obviously the kind of thing an outfit that employs archers would consider corroborating evidence. Lacking in granularity, perhaps, but then again … point.

Bond hits pause, and the image freezes on the screen, with the rig and peripheral machinery in full view. The main rig, he can now see far more clearly, has a second, narrower pipe leading straight into the ground.

There are two additional pieces of apparatus on either side of the rig, identical but mirror images of one another. Metallic casings, tank-like, with piping leading into the ground. Barrels, similar to the ones from the first hut he looked at, sit beside the outlying structures – two large barrels on one side, a single smaller one on the other.

"There," he motions to Ramirez. "Can you look at this?"

Ramirez moves to sit on the arm of Bond's chair with an eager smile, and leans in slightly. He can feel the warmth radiating off her small body, her breath on his cheek. _My._

"Any ideas about the machinery?" he asks, trying to focus, and is gratified by a slow nod.

"The centre one looks a bit like a fracking rig. See, there's the hydraulic injection pipe, or something like it. But the configuration is different, and I have no idea what the two assemblies on either side are for."

She seems genuinely puzzled.

"Besides, it doesn't make any sense. Not here. As I said earlier, there are no hydrocarbon deposits in this part of Scotland, and a lot of the rock strata are granite. They won't shake anything worthwhile loose here, even with fracking."

"Fracking?" Bond asks, even as Barton frowns. Good to know that the airplane education wasn't _that_ exhaustive, or Bond would seriously have to consider indulging in a sense of inferiority.

"Fracking is the term used when people in the extractive industry fracture rock, usually with pressurized liquid mixed with sand and chemicals. The mixture gets injected into a borehole, to create small fractures in the natural stratum. This allows natural gas, oil, or even uranium hidden in otherwise inaccessible strata to travel up the fractures to the well. It's used to get at resources that can't be extracted through direct drilling."

"Sounds like something that could be consistent with the readings from the seismograph," Barton remarks. "But any idea why there'd be two bounces, though? Based on what you said, there should be only one, when the rock breaks."

Bond nods; that actually makes sense. Interesting how the guy seems to zoom in on things, like his arrows, straight for the target. A thought strikes him.

"And if the second one is an echo or an aftershock, shouldn't it be less than the first, not bigger? Could it have something to do with the two assemblies, that they create two different effects?"

Naida blinks, and appears to be gathering her thoughts. When she speaks, it seems directed only at Bond.

"I'd have to do some research on that. Fracking isn't new, but I have to admit, it isn't my area. My specialty is the geology of Skye, and I'm not aware of anything on this island that would lend itself to exploitation by fracturing rock strata."

She yawns demonstratively, and turns her heart-shaped face towards Bond. Her tongue darts briefly out of her mouth, wetting her full lips, and the look she gives him from under half-lidded eyes sends a bolt of liquid heat through him, right to his groin.

"Time for bed," she says, looking at Bond with half-veiled, smoldering eyes.

"I guess you're right," he responds, with a half-smile that says _message received_ as clearly as ever he can, what with their inconvenient companion right there. "Tomorrow is another day. I'll take you upstairs."

He drains his drink and stands up, watching as she slides off the arm of the chair in a fluid, graceful motion.

"What about you, Barton?" he asks with a smile that is not intended to conceal a sense of quiet triumph.

The man's grey-green eyes are unreadable as they slide back and forth between Bond and the geologist.

"I'll hang out here with the laptop for a bit," he says. "Not tired. Jetlag after all, I guess. Plus, the fire feels good. I should be okay as long as you're not planning on one of those fishing-at-dawn lunacies."

Bond feels briefly sorry for his companion as he imagines the most beautiful woman he has seen since – no, don't go there (not ever) – as he imagines Naida Ramirez in those luxurious sheets the Lodge provides for its guests.

He senses the American's eyes following them as he touches the tip of his fingers to the small of the geologist's back, and feels her shudder slightly in response. His voice is perhaps a bit louder than it needs to be as they leave the lounge.

"Issey Miyake, right? Your perfume?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_**Moneypenny**_

"Can I give you a lift to work?"

The voice sounds vaguely familiar, even though the car is not. It's an unassuming thing, the car – a Volkswagen? Eve has never bothered to differentiate, except where it matters, like whether one is armoured or not. (This one isn't.)

The rear window is rolled down and Agent Coulson's deadpan features look out at her expectantly.

It takes her a second to assess her options; she selects the one her mother had always drilled into her to avoid at all costs – the one that involves getting into the car. Well, Coulson isn't _entirely_ a stranger.

"By all means," she says, refusing to smile. This is clearly professional, and there's no call for excessive politeness, especially not when she's being ambushed before she's had the chance to grab a latte. Eve walks around the car, mentally jotting down the plate number, and gets in beside Coulson.

"How do you know where I live, and when I leave the house?" she asks brusquely as she arranges her skirt to cover her knees. (No freebies for this one, not that he gives off the vibe of one who'd be looking.) "Or should I not ask?"

"I rather you didn't," he replies.

"Fine," she sighs. God, sometimes she hates this business she's in. Whatever happened to privacy? "What do you want?"

"To have a chat. Off the record."

She almost snorts with contempt. _Uh-huh._

"And him?" Eve nudges her chin in the direction of the driver. "I assume he's a deaf mute?"

"Deaf, yes, when he's wearing his iPod. Mute? I could only wish. But I wasn't thinking of in the car. I was thinking of going for coffee somewhere."

As far as Eve is concerned, breakfast meetings are the sign of a sick society. They're catching on in Britain, even M has succumbed – but that doesn't mean that Eve herself has to pretend that croissants and serious shit are a match made in heaven. Plus, it will make her late for work, and it's not like M won't notice.

On the other hand … _So much for 'off the record.' _

"Fine. There's a café on Kennington Lane."

Of course, at this time of day the place is usually full of MI-6 agents on their way to HQ, but that's a bonus as far as Eve is concerned. She is surprised how quickly Coulson agrees; if nothing else, it suggests he isn't about to do anything openly nefarious.

The car files into traffic, already ugly at seven a.m. As unreliable as the Northern Line is, it sure beats driving to HQ from Clapham, which is why she wouldn't ever dream of it. Besides, parking?

She pulls out her smartphone and starts on the morning's e-mails. No point trying to make small talk before they get to their destination; might as well do some work. She gives Coulson silent points for doing likewise without comment.

The café, when they get there, has the usual queue for take-out coffee but the seating in the back is almost empty. She places her order – latte, and a pastry – and gives her tablemate her best M glare.

"So what is it you want from me, Agent Coulson?"

"I want to talk about the co-operation between MI-6 and S.H.I.E.L.D."

"What about it? It seems fine. We haven't heard any screams emanating from the Isle of Skye yet. Have you?"

Coulson's look in response manages to convey … absolutely nothing. _How does he do that?_

"Only restrained whining."

She actually lets out a short … no, Eve Moneypenny does _not_ giggle, but this comes close.

"But that's not the point, Miss Moneypenny. Our top agents are there in the field …"

The man who stalked her to her own home is about to give a motivational speech, about the importance of what they're all doing, especially the two at the coal face up on Skye – she can just feel it coming on. Time for a pre-emptive strike, and maybe a spot of provocation.

"Your _Agent_ Barton," she huffs, "is a circus performer. Or former."

Coulson isn't fazed.

"And he was a very good one, I'm told. Unfortunately, he worked mostly in the Midwest and I'm from the East Coast, so I never caught his act. He is also one of our best operatives, with a flawless mission record. Hard on cars, though."

His face turns, if anything, more neutral, and she just knows that retaliation is coming. It does – swiftly.

"So, yes, Agent Barton has a checkered past. And your Mr. Bond, for his part, seems to have a way with women."

Eve's heart sinks a little. James Bond, it seems, never learns, even though the women he fucks almost invariably end up either deceiving or trying to kill him – or dying violent, messy deaths themselves. One reason she's never been tempted, despite those come-hither eyes and nice abs. She's seen his track sheet.

"Don't tell me. Already?"

Coulson looks blandly smug (or smugly bland?) as he provides the confirmation she doesn't need.

"I understand that _your _Mr. Bond has spent the night – what do you call it here? – _shagging _the consultant MI-6 sent to Skye. Has he checked in since last night?"

He can probably read the answer on her face, and she doesn't really care. Let's face it, she's pissed off at Bond for not being able to keep his bloody fly zipped, _again_.

"Bond often … doesn't call HQ. Even when he's in the same time zone." And especially not when he could be shagging consultants instead."He's kind of … a free operator."

"Fortunately, our man is a bit better disciplined than yours."

She can almost see the calculation in his face – the moment he decides to be just a bit more open. (Reciprocity. What a concept.)

"Not much, maybe – we're not always successful at telling him what to _do_, but he at least he usually phones home to tell uswhat he's _done_."

The unspoken '_after he's done it' _comes out as an unarticulated breath of exasperation, and for a moment they share in the camaraderie of the long-suffering associates.

"Barton_ was_ pretty well behaved during our meeting," she offers by way of conciliation.

"He had his orders. So was your Mr. Bond."

True. Good behaviour in front of the boss doesn't make for a very scientific sample though.

"I wonder how they're really making out with each other." She gets a look of horror on her face. "Sorry. Bad choice of words."

Coulson actually smiles. A little. (Maybe it was an optical illusion?) But then, all of the sudden, the game changes.

"As for what they've done – as you know, they went out on a recce last night; Barton sent us the video footage. Apparently their little foray resulted in six deaths – although he insists on claiming credit for only four. The other two are a mystery, and I'm not inclined to follow his current theory about a Loch Dún monster. But our suspicions concerning HYDRA are now somewhat confirmed, given that no one has reported those deaths to local law enforcement."

Eve swallows. Now _this_ is the kind of information she would have called M for, had Bond cared to pass it on. She refuses to get sidetracked though – by Bond's omissions or the number of dead hostiles – and follows Coulson's reasoning instead.

"Because they're not the kind who want coppers snooping around the property?"

"That, and they don't care if their people get killed. HYDRA's motto is something to the effect that for each one of theirs killed, two others will take their place."

Eve shudders a little.

"Charming."

"Of course, they also now know that someone is interested in their activities, and will be extra vigilant."

Eve's hand pauses over her croissant.

"And maybe they'll step up whatever they are doing, which might make it easier to figure out."

"That may not necessarily be a good thing."

Coulson takes a thoughtful sip of his coffee – black, two sugars – and fixes her with his cool gaze.

"Let me ask you something, Ms. Moneypenny. When, exactly, were you planning on telling S.H.I.E.L.D. about that geologist of yours, Naida Ramirez? After your agent is finished … shagging her?"

Ah. _That._

Coulson probably figures that they are on sufficiently good terms now that he can ask the question he really contacted her for. Plus, he's paid for her answer in advance, with the intel about last night. Tit for tat, that's how diplomacy works, no?

She'd suggested to M that they consult with S.H.I.E.L.D., but had received nothing but a titanium stare in response. This had been followed by a curt, '_This is an operation on British soil, and we do not require permission to engage a British expert.' _Which was cleverly put, but hadn't really answered Eve's point about the advisability of cooperation. (Unless it had?)

"I don't know about your organization, Mr. Coulson, but in ours, senior management is not always the most … inclined to share information."

At this, Coulson sets down his cup with an audible _clang_, the most human reaction she's seen from him yet.

"That would be a fair way to describe Director Fury, yes."

Good. They understand each other, then. (Probably a bit too well, actually.)

"To put it bluntly, we don't know S.H.I.E.L.D., and we have no way of knowing whether the data you proposed to send to us for analysis would be genuine or complete. So M decided to send in our own expert, for independent corroboration on site. We knew you'd find out as soon as she arrived, so no harm done, really."

"Harm is relative. According to Barton, she pretty freely admitted that she is _new to the spook game_." Eve appreciates that Coulson doesn't use air quotes. "Mr. Bond may be impressed by her gorgeous red hair, green eyes and translucent skin – all of which Agent Barton described to me in excruciating detail, I might add – but this is a sensitive operation, Ms Moneypenny, not suited for amateurs. Just how well did you vet this woman?"

Eve sits back in her chair, unable to hide her discomfort. As she'd told Prabathi from Strategic Assessment only last week, she has yet to see a turf battle that leads to smart decisions; Coulson, she suspects, would agree. She fixes him with her most direct gaze. This is how back channels are supposed to work, isn't it?

"It was a bit of a rush job, I have to admit. HR was yelling at me that we can't just slap a clearance on her because we want her to be able to see TS material, so she still only has Reliability status. She's a post-doctoral fellow at Leicester University, who worked for the British government during a number of summers. She comes with the highest recommendations from her supervisors, and is an expert in the geology of Skye and the Inner Hebrides."

She stops herself as Coulson's face seems just a little too passive at her admission. There's something on his mind.

"Why do you ask?"

"Given that your Director made a point of correcting mine on a similar point, Agent Barton was wondering why a British-trained geologist would be referring to the geology of the _British Islands_, rather than of the British _Isles_. I don't know how geologists refer to the islands, so it may be nothing, but …"

Eve doesn't really have an answer to that, and so she doesn't pretend. _Why indeed?_

"_Emm, oh shit_?" she offers, and isn't even remotely gratified when Coulson nods. "I'll have someone look into her a bit more closely."

"You might well wish to do so, Ms Moneypenny," he replies evenly. "And you will let me know what you find? I believe you have my card – I cannot over-emphasize the importance of communication between our agencies."

Eve nods, mutely, and Coulson hails the server for the check with the universal scribbling-into-your-palm motion. The man disappears behind the counter. But it's her turn, and there's one more thing.

"You said your Director wasn't into sharing information either. So what's he holding back?"

_Ouch. _That came out too blunt by half. Eve knows that she will never earn a living as an interrogator, but what the hell. Time for questions is running out.

Coulson stills.

"I don't know, Ms Moneypenny, and if I did, I would likely not be in a position to tell you."

He takes a deep breath and looks her straight in the eye.

"But since I _don't _know, I can engage in speculation. Our directors serve very different political masters. At our level, yours and mine, we don't often get to see them, but trust me when I say that apart from a shared interest in protecting civilians, they probably don't have that much in common. The World Security Council considers national organizations such as MI-6 as … how shall I put it? _Parochial, quaint and outdated. _Lacking the big picture."

Eve feels compelled to protest.

"MI-6 has a global mandate …"

Coulson holds up his hand to stop her.

"In the service of limited, nation-state interests. A global mandate, for Britain. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s interests are … intended to be much broader."

Eve doesn't miss the nuance in the way he said that last, especially since he accentuates it with a pause (and was that a Meaingful Look?). _Intended to be._

Coulson continues.

"By your own admission, if we had not come to you, you would never have known that S.H.I. . even existed_._ Why do you think we were instructed to come to you?"

"I don't know. Do you? Does Fury?"

An epic poem could be read into Coulson's shrug. Lucky for him, the server relieves him of the obligation to make up a response by showing up with the bill and the portable Switch card terminal. Coulson takes out a twenty instead, hands it to the server and waves off the change. _Leaving no tracks._

"My treat," he says to Eve, "since I practically ambushed you."

Eve takes that as the apology it's probably meant to be, and allows him to hold open the door of the car for her when it pulls up outside the café. From here, the trip to the Albert Embankment and HQ is just a couple of minutes, especially since rush hour is over by now. But there's not much left to say in any event.

"Our analysts are already on the video clips Barton sent us last night. Let's compare notes, when we have results. And … thank you for meeting with me, Ms. Moneypenny," Coulson says as they pull up in the drop-off zone. "It was a pleasure."

"And … certainly useful."

To her own surprise, she actually means it. His response is the first genuine smile she's seen from the man since she has met him.

"Let's keep in touch, Ms. Moneypenny."

She extends her hand; his answering grip is warm and firm.

"Eve," she replies with a smile of her own. "Call me Eve."

…..

_**Barton**_

If there is one thing Clint could get used to on this damp island - apart from the beer - it's breakfast, especially when it happens at a decent time in the morning, like after eight. The Scots really know their breakfast, too, a deeply satisfying, deeply fried blend of carbs and protein, with the only vegetable in sight some grilled tomatoes and potato wedges.

He's on his third trip to the buffet when Bond shows up, looking a bit rumpled but not in the same clothes as the night before. _His room, then, not hers._ Clint briefly considers whether he should tell Bond about the conversations he had with Coulson the night before and this morning, but orders are orders. And while this one sucks particularly badly (and he'd said so to his Coulson, in no uncertain terms), it hasn't quite reached the fuck-it-to-hell stage on the Clint Barton Scale Of Respect For Authority.

Ramirez is nowhere in sight – no surprise there; someone who works _that_ fast doesn't usually stay to cuddle, and Bond isn't exactly the type either. Clint briefly wonders what she'd be like out of the various outfits he's seen her in so far, but that's not really a productive line of thought and so he focuses on those dark sausage patties instead.

"Hadn't figured you for the blood pudding type, Barton," Bond comments with a diffident grin, as he helps himself to bacon and fried eggs.

Clint's hand pauses for a second over the heated container.

"Blood?"

Bond's grin turns into the kind generally described as 'shit-eating.' (Exactly why Clint has never been able to figure out; it's not like anyone actually does that. Or … do they? The mind boggles.)

"Yes, blood. Cooked with some kind of filler, to help it coagulate when it cools. You mean you didn't know?"

Clint considers the information briefly. Blood, huh. Who knew? (Like that haggis thing he had last night, before their little outing – sheep gut, filled with meat and oats, the server had said. Odd, but actually pretty good.) Clint is all for trying new stuff, provided it doesn't include pieces of shrubbery. He shrugs and puts two more pieces of the stuff on his plate. Bond looks disappointed, but gets over it quickly.

"My handler was a bit pissed off to hear about your lady friend," he tells Bond after the server has filled their cups with coffee (Bond's first, Clint's third). That is the understatement of the day, actually, but Bond doesn't need to know that; for now it'll have to do as the only hint he gets. "We need to work on our info sharing skills."

"Complain to M," Bond responds around a mouthful of egg, effectively closing the subject. "Not my call. So what do you suggest for next steps?"

"Lie low for a bit. They saw us yesterday at the lake, plus we can't go back to their main site during the day, not after what we did last night. They'll be spooked for sure. Suggest we go up to their secondary site in the foothills, take some more measurements with that seismograph, wait for analysis. I sent stuff back last night after you went to … bed."

Bond ignores the drawled reference and stares at Clint, his mouth working a piece of bacon.

"What?"

"I didn't think you were the type to just … call home, sit back and wait for things to happen."

"Sniper, remember?" Clint shrugs. "Plus, baseball fan. Fact that my old man called me what he did, doesn't mean I'm a cowboy. Point is, we probably stirred up a wasp nest last night, so going back to the main site today would be stupid."

Bond can't really argue with that and since Ramirez chooses this moment to walk in, he just nods.

"Morning, boys," she announces cheerily. She puts a hand on Bond's shoulder in a small, almost possessive gesture, but removes it just as quickly. He smiles up at her, looking to Clint more than a little relieved that she didn't try to drop a kiss on his head.

Clint makes a mental note: The sex was probably somewhere between good and great – neither party is afraid to show a physical connection and they're both in superb shape – but there won't be any need to arrange for a wedding planner quite yet. Probably a good thing, all things considered.

He watches the woman as she grazes the buffet and puts a few select low-carb items (yoghurt and fruit, mostly, plus some smoked salmon and sliced ham) on her plate. Well, the ball on that is in Coulson's court. It's sure clear that Bond isn't interested in checking out anything other than Ramirez' admittedly attractive curves, which are now swaying toward their table. Then again, maybe that is her point?

She casts Clint a look that starts out as demure and mildly apologetic but ends up somewhere near scorching as the tip of her tongue comes out to moisten her lips, and he can't help but wonder just what he missed out on last night.

And whether he might get another shot.

_Damn, she's good._

…..

A fine Scottish mist sweetens the air (well, that's what Bond calls it – to Clint it's just more fucking rain) as they head for the hills in the Aston Martin. Bond clearly expects Clint to wedge himself into the back; the raised eyebrows and meaningful look at the space behind the seats made that pretty clear. Clint accepts, almost gracefully, although for reasons other than chivalry – having Ramirez behind him is not really an option.

Loch Dún lies moody and slate grey in the distance as they approach the Black Cuillin. It's all very scenic, if not exactly tranquil. A small waterfall, swollen with the recent rain, makes low-level conversation almost impossible (in a calming, massage-salon-background-sound kind of way, of course, so maybe he should just suck it up).

But suddenly there's the unmistakable sound of two helicopters, an intrusive reminder that somewhere out there is a world full of gun-grey metal and the stink of kerosene. They're headed for the main HYDRA camp, by the shores of Loch Dún.

"Sikorsky H-92," Clint says, shielding his neck against the rain as he looks up and then. "Used to transport personnel and cargo. Question is – are they bringing stuff in, or taking it out?"

He feels naked without his bow, wishing he hadn't decided to stick it in the trunk -_boot?_ - of the car. One of the explosive arrows could easily take down a chopper in flight, and Clint's fingers are itching thanks to something he can best describe as instinct.

"Hey guys?" Ramirez, too, has been observing the choppers from atop a black rock, half-covered with moss and surrounded by ferns, where she has positioned the portable seismograph. "Did you feel that just now?"

Clint doesn't bother to answer; it's clear from Bond's reaction that he felt it as well despite the vegetation under their feet. Whatever the rumbling, it isn't the choppers.

"Seismograph?"

"Still going," she announces, "but coming down now. Three-point-zero, then three-point-eight. The biggest this little gizmo of yours has recorded yet."

"Let's stay here for a bit, see if there's another one." Bond doesn't sound like he's consulting anyone, but then again, nobody is arguing.

Thirty minutes later, the needle dips again. Once (three-point-four) and twice (four-point-four). One for the newspapers, this one, Ramirez notes – especially in a country where these things don't happen. Place will be crawling with her colleagues by tomorrow.

"There's a differential of a full point between peaks," Ramirez notes.

"They're not only gaining overall, but the resonance, or whatever it is, of the first strike seems bigger each time."

Clint never got much formal math education, but calculating the forces of nature is kind of his thing, even if he usually denies it when Coulson points it out to him.

"If they get their fracking velocity, or whatever you call it, up over four, and those intervals keep getting bigger, there won't be a picture left hanging at Ye Aulde Lodge and our friend Iain-the-waiter will get his environmental movement."

For a moment the three of them just chew on their own respective thoughts; Clint observing Ramirez through half-lidded eyes. She gives no indication that she is aware of his scrutiny.

"Wait," she suddenly frowns at the seismograph. "There's another event. But it's … different."

"Different? That's kind of an imprecise term, isn't, _Doctor_?" Clint's voice is perhaps a bit more challenging than he'd intended, and her eyes narrow a little at his tone. _Shit_. _Careful, Hawkeye._

"Yes, different," she snaps back. "No one-two pattern this time. This one is a single, long rumbling, relatively low-level event. And," she frowns again, "it's centered closer to the mountains – to here – than to the Loch. Maybe it was triggered by the others rather than by fracking activity."

She stands up and stares towards the Black Cuillin range looming behind her, shielding her eyes against the rain. Bond turns to Clint, a deep frown marring his already slightly craggy face as a third chopper flies overhead, momentarily drawing both their eyes.

"I think the experiments over there," Bond gestures vaguely with his chin in the direction of Loch Dún, "may be stirring up something that's been asleep for millions of years."

Clint is tempted to say something about the Celts and their love of dragons, but now isn't really the time for smart-assery. Besides, he has read enough about the local geology to know what he's standing on. Bond confirms it, gives it voice.

"Much of the Isle of Skye is volcanic in origin. I wonder whether whatever they're doing with their rigs is maybe reactivating some ancient … Naida?"

Clint looks back at the boulder where their supposed consultant had been occupied with the seismograph. It's empty: Naida Ramirez has melted into the rocky landscape.

Damn. Shouldn't have looked at that chopper ... Clint can't help but admire Ramirez' powers of perception: he must have given something away, and she picked the first second that his attention was diverted to disappear.

The roar of a car engine pierces the sound of the rain on the rocks; Bond's, no doubt – he's spitting a curse and starting in the direction where they'd left his Precious.

_Fuck. _

Girl's a pro, whatever game she's playing – two seasoned agents, left behind in the dust, made to walk home in the rain.

_Double fuck._

She's gone, but they're not alone. Coincidence? Doubtful.

"Very good insight, Mr. Bond," a silky voice with an indeterminate accent interrupts Clint's musings, and evidently picking up on the bit about the volcanos. "Very _good, _for an amateur_._ And yes, like _many things_ long believed to have been dormant, there are forces on this island that await only a re-awakening to be brought back and be harnessed to fulfill their glorious purpose."

"What the…" Clint spits out, but the remainder of the sentence is silenced by the sight of half a dozen submachine guns, all trained on his and Bond's center mass.

"We will find your companion, have no worries," their captor purrs. "She might think she has gotten away, but I have sent three of my men after her, the silly girl, in a car much more suited to the terrain than the one she is driving. But for now, I have orders to take you to our leader. The head of the mightiest group of scientist-warriors ever assembled."

He clicks his heels (somewhat ineffectually, given the squishy vegetation at his feet) and, in a gesture as absurd as it is chilling, raises his hand in a salute that looks almost, but not quite, familiar.

"_Hail HYDRA!"_

…..

_**Moneypenny**_

Eve stares at the CV on the computer screen. It all checks out: Naida Ramirez – Age 27. PhD from Imperial College, London; post-doctoral research fellowship at Leicester University; impressive list of publications; excellent recommendations from supervisors. Stuff that can't be faked easily, besides, why would anyone do so? It's not like MI-6 hires geologists often enough to warrant somebody having an undercover one ready for delivery.

Eve chews her nails and before long, finds herself spitting out a chip of _I'm Not Really A Waitress_. From the thumb, yet. _Damn_. So much for being able to live a well-groomed life, now that she's no longer a field agent. She switches to the cuticles; more satisfying, anyway.

The fact that Ramirez is of Cuban origin might (just_)_ explain the _British Islands_ slip Barton had noticed – although not really, given that she's been studying the geology of the Inner Hebrides for a number of years. Even a foreign student should clue into that one, let alone someone who's lived in Britain most of her life.

So … what gives? Eve calls up the photograph, and takes a hissing breath.

Naida Ramirez is a fine-looking woman, the very type that Bond generally falls for and, due to form, apparently has. The only thing is, the flaming red hair, green eyes and the – what was it? _translucent skin? _–that Coulson had said Barton was so impressed with, they're nowhere in sight.

Now, the absence of the red hair is not a problem; any woman with access to a good hair stylist (or a chemist's and a sink - Eve's been there, big mistake) can tell you that. Most can also tell you where to get coloured contacts. But no amount of wishful thinking or make-up will change the fact that Dr. Naida Ramirez – like so many people born in Cuba – is half Hispanic, half black.

But it gets worse. There is no bloody way that Coulson hadn't seen that picture before dragging her off to that awkward breakfast date. He'd known _exactly _what she would find.

Eve has been around the block enough times to know that, in a world where spoken words are often heard by unseen ears, the real message often lies in the silences between them – the things unspoken, the calculated omissions. And this was one doozy of an omission.

She reaches for the comm button, the one marked "M".

"Ma'am? We need to talk."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_**Bond**_

Bond has fought himself out of many sticky situations, but several guys with Ruger MP 9s trained at his gut, and him without Kevlar? There are limits, and this is one of those moments when discretion is by far the better part of valour. Besides, if Marquardt wanted them dead, they would be by now. These guys will have their orders.

Apparently, Barton feels the same way. Time for a game of watch and wait_._

His training (not to mention a good dose of adrenaline) has kicked in, and Bond absorbs and registers everything around him with crystalline clarity now – the number of opponents and their relative seniority; levels of vigilance and weaponry (pistols, apart from those submachine guns, a knife on each belt that's probably just for the threatening-cool factor the Nazis always went for).

A part of his brain continues to be occupied by a single phrase: _Hail HYDRA._

What the fuck? Bond has seen his fair share of odd security threats over the years, from megalomaniacal inventors and ice-cold CEOs to seriously disturbed ex-MI-6 agents, but this? He can't decide whether their captors are for real, or whether they are enacting some sordid fascist role playing game, with a multi-national cast and historical overtones. Well, okay, the guns are real, as are the dead bodies Barton and their secret helper scattered around the Quonset hut, but no one has even mentioned those yet.

Sometimes, one really has to wonder whether a traditional intelligence service like MI-6 is fully prepared to even perceive outfits like this as a threat. He remembers the discussion with Fury in M's office; hell, if that's the kind of thing S.H.I.E.L.D. is up against, they're welcome to it. (No wonder they consider an archer with funky arrowheads as the ultimate weapon.)

"Have you run across these people before?" he asks Barton as they are being led, hands cuffed in front and at gunpoint, presumably to some form of transport further away. HYDRA doesn't seem the outfit to go for a hike.

"_Silence!_" barks a voice behind him.

Barton obviously figures that the order wasn't meant for him, or else he doesn't care.

"Virgin. Heard about them though. We thought they'd given up the ghost 'til a couple of years ago, when they popped up in Bolivia."

"Doing what? Recreating the Thousand-Year Reich in the jungle?"

"What do any of these outfits ever want? Money, power."

"I said silence!"

The lead goon's shout is accompanied by a sharp nod of his head. _Here it comes. _Testing your opponents' patience, pulling them out of their comfort zone of unquestioned dominance is always a little risky, but always worthwhile. Sometimes, it even opens up opportunities.

Out of the corner of his eyes Bond can see his personal watchdog's arms move and he feels the air displacement as the Ruger whips towards him. He waits until the last moment before ducking ever-so-slightly, ensuring that the blow lands with considerably less force than intended and on the hardest part of his skull. It nearly misses him altogether – hitting someone with a gun that you need both hands to hold onto is actually a lot less effective than it looks. Nonetheless, Bond staggers forward, allows himself to fall on the ground with a groan, and doesn't get up.

It doesn't surprise him to see Barton being treated the same way, and doing pretty much the same thing. The advantage of being a professional punching bag is that you learn how to roll with those same punches; apparently S.H.I.E.L.D. agents have similar experiences.

"Get them up," Lead Goon snarls contemptuously. "We don't have time for this. The Commander wants them at the site."

The guard who hit Barton gives him a kick for good measure, before reaching down to yank him up by the cuff chain. Bond manages to avoid similar treatment by scrambling to his feet. No reason to take unnecessary damage now; who knows what's coming next.

"Eight point five on the dive," Barton mutters and, looking straight at Bond, staggers and pulls the guy handling him forward with his cuffed hands. Ducking low, he takes his shoulder to the man's sternum, flipping him over his head; there is the sickening sound of bone on rock and the man lies still. Within seconds, three of the others are on Barton and there are sounds of fists hitting human flesh and – less prejudicially – a waxed coat.

Bond's own guard stops in mid-pull to watch the show; Bond takes a staggering step, piling into the man's side. He manages to put three fingers on the guy's belt knife and pulls it out even as he makes a show of apologizing for his clumsiness; his effort gets him a crack across the side of his head with the man's gun, which he doesn't have the chance to duck this time. Instead, he palms the knife's handle, flattening the blade against his wrist as he twists and falls with the gun's impact.

"Enough," bellows Lead Goon. "Unless you want to carry him to the Commander."

Barton spits on the ground – it doesn't seem to be a tooth, just some blood – and looks at Bond from the side as they are being yanked to their feet, and shoved forward in the direction they had been heading. Bond flicks his eyelids up and down briefly for a _yes_, and Barton launches into a string of colourful expletives, and explains to their captors in several languages what he would like to do to them, their mothers and their rotting corpses (in no particular order of preference or anatomical feasibility).

His outburst earns him another beating – this one a bit more pro forma, it seems, given the earlier order to keep him intact; Bond uses the new distraction to push the knife as high up his sleeve as he can without attracting attention to any unusual movement. _Mission accomplished._

He watches Barton shake off the assault as an animal might inconvenient drops of water, moving his jaw and flexing his fingers as he stumbles forward, a gun prodding him in the back.

They end up at a pair of SUVs, left at the end of a dirt road. Bond mentally kicks himself for not having heard those cars coming, but he supposes the sound of the waterfall must have drowned them out. Barton, they've already established sees far better than he hears. But then it hits him.

_Naida. _ She must have seen the cars coming from where she was standing on the rock, and disappeared instead of warning them. _Bloody hell. _Who or what is she – a girl who takes "kiss, don't tell" to a new level? At least she doesn't seem to be part of HYDRA, given the search party they sent out for her – plus she hasn't made any move to kill him or Barton. Yet.

Bond can't help chuckling grimly to himself. Moneypenny will have a field day with this, if she ever finds out. He can hear her now: _That was a definite Category C, Double-Oh Seven: 'Works For Unknown Third Party'. Also known as 'The Wild Card'. Beautiful (aren't they all?) but unreliable, possibly deadly. Well played._

Fuck.

"What's so funny?" one of the guards scowls, and Bond rolls his eyes. What do these people do, practice thuggish delivery in front of a mirror? His response gets him a punch in the gut, but that's what good abs are for and he shakes it off without comment.

The HYDRA vehicles go mostly overland, avoiding the Lodge and its extensive grounds as they jostle across the landscape towards Loch Dún. Upon arrival at the exploration site, Bond and Barton are unceremoniously pulled out and marched at gunpoint to one of the huts.

It's not one of the two that Bond had explored the night before; this one is at the edge of the encampment farthest from the lake, and has apparently been set up as a command station, in preference to the old mansion.

A tall, dark-haired man, dressed in green coveralls with the same insignia Bond had noticed on the henchmen's jackets the night before – some kind of combination of a skull and an octopus? – sits in front of a bank of computers. The screens show what appears to be a series of simulations or models of some kind of event, if the differing and evolving images are anything to go by.

The man looks up from his work and scans both the prisoners and their guards quickly from behind thick glasses, taking note of the various injuries and coming to the obvious conclusion.

"Hands behind their backs, you morons," he barks. "These men are professionals. And use proper zip ties this time, not those Chinese cuffs."

You can practically hear the '_you just can't get decent minions anymore'_ exasperation in his voice.

Bond exchanges a quick glance with Barton. Changeover – an opportunity? The tiniest of headshakes provides the expected response: _Too many of them, with too many guns. _Bond nods ever so slightly, and focuses on keeping the knife in his sleeve from falling out. It's not exactly an easy feat, as his hands are being manhandled none too gently, and zip-tied behind his back; he breathes an internal sigh of relief when his captor steps back.

The man rises from his workstation and approaches the two captives in a slightly limping gait, staying well out of their reach.

"Mr. Barton and Mr. Bond, I understand," he says, in clipped, unaccented English. "Assuming you registered at the Lodge under your real names, that is. I am Anton Marquardt, but I expect you know that. You have been _very _busy since you arrived. Working for the Government, I presume?"

Neither man bothers to respond, and Marquardt gives a small triumphant smile.

"You're not denying it then. Good. It would have been both unwise and useless, and I will find out in due course just which Government, British or American. Although it doesn't really matter; either way, we could not have you interfering with our work. But now that we have you, you will provide us a useful service, as will your little red-headed assistant, once we find her."

Since a response is clearly expected, Bond appoints himself their spokesperson.

"Service?" he inquires politely.

"You have heard of the canary, Mr. Bond?" Marquardt's voice is velvety, and his delivery accentuated with an unctuous smile.

Barton can't seem to help himself.

"Sure," he says. The Midwestern drawl is back, and he seems to be in full-fledged annoy-the-shit-out-of-your-opponent-to-see-what-he -spills mode. "Yellow bird. Sings for food? Sorry, but we already ate."

"I can see why my men beat you up, Mr. Barton." Marquardt is not amused. "Maybe I should ask them to do it again."

He raises a hand to stop the two goons heading for Barton, presumably to do the honours.

"No, not yet, gentlemen. You can have him afterwards, if he survives. You see, Mr. Barton, the canary has a traditional use in the extractive sector. Miners use them to test newly opened shafts or caves for dangerous gases. If the birds died, they knew not to go in."

He turns back to his computer and fiddles with the controls.

"We were not planning on proceeding to Phase Two quite this soon, but your activities from last night give us little choice. And so it is only fitting that you will play a part. My illustrious ancestor might have used some of his own people for this, but I am not a wasteful man. I believe in repurposing and dual use wherever possible. I cannot afford the distraction to let you see our actual implementation of Phase II - but by remaining here, you can no longer interfere with our operations, _and_ you will provide us with useful information on potential noxious gas releases."

Bond can't resist.

"So if gas is only a nasty side effect, what are you actually hoping to get out of all this?"

It's a crude approach to getting information, but it's worked for Bond with previous captors who planned for him to die at their hands, either immediately or down the road. The doomed agent is, after all, the most secure stovepipe known to the spy business, and most truly ambitious criminals are eager to share in their glory before pointing the gun. As it turns out, Marquardt is no exception.

"_Mining_ is a very unsophisticated term for what we are doing, Mr. Bond. HYDRA will be forcing the reluctant Earth to yield its riches – through far more effective scientific methods," he gestures towards the screens, "than your pedestrian minds can conceive."

"Didn't think there was anything worthwhile digging for up here." Barton chimes in, presumably to keep the flow of information going, or else in an effort to prevent another enthusiastic 'Hail HYDRA' outburst.

"That depends how deep you are prepared to look. We are looking _very_ deep indeed, and are in the process of creating an opening into these ancient rocks that will provide us with access to a diamond mine the likes of which has not been seen since Kimberley. With those riches, HYDRA will finally be in a position to claim its rightful place in the world."

He motions to his minions with his chin, and Bond finds himself wrestled to the ground even as Marquardt's words echo in his ear.

_Diamonds, to finance ambitions of world domination._ Never a dull moment in this line of business.

"And you think you'll just be allowed to start digging for diamonds on British soil?" Bond grunts out through the legs of a green-suited thug.

"There is a single cave that it will not take long to exploit. My very own invention, the Marquardt resonator," he preens a little, "has located it deep beneath the rock. All we need is access. Your Government, Mr. Bond, will be far too busy with other matters to bother us once we initiate Phase Three."

Marquardt is back to being all business now, all poetry and enthusiasm drained from his voice in favour of efficiency.

"Cuff them together and attach the monitors," he barks, "and don't forget the feet this time."

He turns back to his instruments and makes what looks like a number of adjustments, while his minions roughly shove Bond and Barton until they're sitting back-to-back. As a third zip tie is joined to those already on their wrists, the tip of the stolen dagger digs into the crook of his elbow.

"Trust exercise," Barton mutters as he leans back against Bond and lets out a long but shallow breath.

"Funny, Barton."

But the sigh sounded genuine, and Bond is beginning to wonder just how many of his partner's ribs may have been cracked in the operation to obtain a knife. A siren sounds, and the guards scramble towards the exit. Marquardt puts the finishing touch on his entry with a theatrical flourish, and turns once more towards his captives.

"Thank you for your service to science and exploration, Gentlemen. Please excuse me while I engage Phase II and take a precautionary leave of absence. Should you survive the next hour, we will see each other again. Briefly."

He heads out the door, followed by the remainder of the guards; one of them latches and locks the door of the Quonset hut behind them. For a moment, silence falls.

"You okay, Barton?"

Working the knife out of his sleeve and into his zip-tied hands is not easy.

"Just ducky. Although I think those jack-booted thugs may have cracked one of my ribs. Maybe even more than one."

"Ouch," Bond says dutifully. Courtesy demands sympathy, given that Barton took those hits in the name of the common cause. Ah, there's the handle, in his fingers, although that makes the angle for cutting bloody awkward. He gingerly tries to maneuver the weapon into a position where he can use it, without dropping it.

"No big deal. I always wanted to use that in conversation. How's it going back there?"

"Not much leverage for cutting. Use what in conversation?"

"_Jack-booted thugs_. Could have done without the actual boots, though."

Bond curses softly. Holding the knife by the handle isn't an option, given the angle; he'll have to grip it by the blade. He briefly wonders whether he should be glad or concerned that the thing isn't particularly sharp; but it is what it is, and so he just gets on with it.

"Does your mother know you let yourself get beaten up for a living, Barton?"

Barton snorts.

"You kidding?" he says. "Yours?"

"Parents died in a car crash when I was ten."

"Huh." Barton pauses for a second and carefully repositions his arms to give Bond better maneuvering room – such as it is. "Fancy that. Mine, too. Except I was six. Father wrapped the family pick-up around a tree while pissed to the gills. _He_ was good with his boots, too."

He blinks away a memory.

"Anyway. All in a day's work, as they say, right? Just make those kicks count, buddy, and get those fucking ties off the both of us."

Score one for M's human resource planning. What had she said to him once? _Orphans make the best recruits_?

"You know, the movies aren't wrong," Barton remarks after it is clear that their captor is not returning, and that the two guards are content to hang back far enough that they won't be listening in. He seems to go from total silence to talkative at the oddest times. Surprisingly enough, Bond finds himself not minding; the man's observations tend to range from the diverting to the useful.

"There's two kinds of evildoers. There's the kind that wants you to watch them do their thing and cower in fear at their greatness, and then there's the ones that just get the job done, with no interest whatsoever in being found out. Quite the contrary, usually. Personally, I prefer the megalomaniacs. More chances to get away while they're off monologuing, plus then you know what they're up to and can save yourself a crapload of research. With the silent kind, you don't realize you're dead until you are."

He pauses, but before Bond gets the chance to tell him that he'd had pretty much the same though a few minutes ago, Barton continues.

"Like _her_."

"Her?"

"Ramirez. Or whatever her real name is."

Bond frowns. He doesn't stop sawing away at the zip tie, but when he speaks, he enunciates each word very clearly.

"What. Do. You. Mean."

Barton shrugs, as best he can with his arms cuffed behind him and without jostling Bond's hand.

"Whoever it was that MI-6 hired to help us, the woman who showed up at the lodge wasn't her. Coulson texted me just before breakfast. I asked him to check last night. Guess I'm paranoid."

Bond is speechless for a moment, for a number of reasons, including a quick re-run of things he might have said the previous night as she was licking champagne from the minibar off his ... Fuck. He decides to settle on indignation; it helps him saw more vigorously.

"May I ask why you kept that to yourself? Last night, and then when we went out with her on the moor?"

"Last night? I had no real clue, just a suspicion that could have been way off. Plus, I just assumed _you_ were going to check her out. In more than the way you apparently did. This morning? Coulson told me to hold off, pending instructions from Fury. In the meantime, I was planning on keeping an eye on her."

"Until she disappeared, that is."

Barton snorts.

"Yeah, well. That's when I decided my orders were shit. Same as your lot's decision not to tell us about her in the first place."

Bond is a fair guy, and Barton does have a point.

"Touché, I guess."

Barton huffs, or maybe it's a grunt of pain as he shifts uncomfortably. One of the guards approaches on his round, and Bond holds still. Whatever face Barton is making at the guy he doesn't want to know. The guard mutters something snarky in a language Bond doesn't recognize – Estonian? These guys seem to have been collected from all over the EU – and moves on. Barton continues as if he had never been interrupted.

"Personally, I always thought the turf approach was fucking useless, when you're after the same thing. Makes even less sense in a joint op. Want to hear what I think? Somebody is playing games, and it isn't just Marquardt."

Bond doesn't really know how to respond – what's the point, really, someone is always playing games – and silence falls for a while as he continues to try and saw. His hands are twisted at an awkward angle to the point of cramping, and the ties dig in to both their wrists. Of course, HYDRA would _have_ to hand out glorified letter openers rather than a nice, sharp Buck knife – or else this is a special kind of plastic. He feels the zip tie with his free thumb and forefinger; about halfway through. Whatever happened to cuffs with mechanical locks?

"Anything else you want to tell me while we have the time?"

"Want? Yes. Can? No. Speculate? Maybe. Fury drops information like gold dust. Your M does the same, no?"

Bond grunts in the affirmative. Karmic twins, M and Fury, no matter how much they'd deny it if asked.

"You trust Fury?"

"About as far as I can throw him. He has a pretty clear line of sight for the long game, though."

The sound of a muffled explosion rocks the ground they are sitting on just as a familiar, husky voice rings across the Quonset hut, followed by a quick _pop-pop_. Bond twitches in his cuffs, trying to turn to get a view, even as Barton chuckles in a hollow way.

"One thing I _can _tell you, right now, and it's not even a secret."

"Yeah? What."

"She's here."

There's no need for Bond to ask who 'she' is.

Bond can't see her but he recognizes the voice – as surely as he'd heard her moan last night, in what he thought at the time was pleasure. (Now, he's no longer sure.)

Her words don't inspire confidence.

"Don't get your hopes up, boys. I'm not here for you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_**Moneypenny**_

Coulson stares at the report with all the intensity of a magician who is trying to will something to disappear. It doesn't, though.

Eve looks at her guest across the table in the secure room. How long has it been since they've seen each other? Five, six hours? This time, she'd called him. There are notes to compare and this time, she's put everything on the table. Literally.

"Based on our preliminary analysis, the readings Agent Barton transmitted show an action/reaction pattern of increasing intensity. There is some kind of blasting happening, and it provokes distinctive, and increasing reactions."

Coulson nods.

"Agreed. We got the same from our experts. Did yours catch the extra events?"

"Yes. Barton's transmission didn't highlight those, and of course now we know why Ramirez didn't point them out. The _real _one would have known what to look for."

M hadn't expressed remorse over keeping S.H.I.E.L.D. in the dark over the geologist, but neither had she bothered to defend the decision. As ever, _M_ stands for _moving on_ – but that doesn't mean Eve can't let her own opinion show, just a little. Coulson, to his credit, doesn't dwell.

"Our specialists weren't clear on whether the non-triggered events represent tectonic shifts or volcanic activity. Given the readings were taken near the Black Cuillin, the vote has come down in favour of volcanic activity."

He stops for a moment, his expressionless face no longer just bland, but serious. (There's a difference, and Eve finds she is learning how to read the man. To her surprise, she enjoys it.)

"Agent Barton hasn't checked in again, not since this morning. I tried to contact him, but was not successful."

Eve clenches her jaws and takes a deep breath.

"Same here. No contact with Bond. But there's more."

Coulson waits in silence. He knows she'll tell him; it's why she called him in, after all. _MI-6 has decided to share._

"We're now streaming independent seismic readings from British Geological Survey stations around the UK. There have been two events in the last two hours. There wasn't the one-two pattern we got yesterday; those were new and distinct events. And both are consistent with …"

She swallows briefly. Some news you never want to give, because saying it out loud makes it true.

"… _both _seismic _and_ volcanic activity. Early modeling suggests that if HYDRA keeps up their activities, chances are they will – _will, _not _may –_ trigger a volcanic fissure opening on Skye, and possibly a seismic shift along the Moine Thrust or the Great Glen Fault."

She doesn't care anymore whether her tone suits the professional detachment she is supposed to project.

"Until this morning, I had no idea what those things even were. Apparently they're ancient fault lines that cut across Scotland, back from when there was still tectonic plate movement. Who knew? If they become active again, and depending on the magnitude of such events …"

Coulson is all brisk efficiency.

"I assume you are activating evacuation plans, and alerting first responders?"

Eve nods, and tries to suppress the sudden shaking in her hands. This is nothing she has ever been trained for, and she should be cutting herself some slack, but still.

"M has alerted Whitehall, Number Ten, the Home Office, MOD and relevant Emergency Preparedness agencies. Natural disasters are outside our expertise and jurisdiction, but there are protocols in place and they've been activated."

Coulson straightens a bit.

"Except this wouldn't be a natural disaster, Eve. And preventing that kind of thing is precisely why S.H.I.E.L.D exists. We'll send a QuinJet to Skye with backup for Barton and Bond, to avoid any further triggering activities by HYDRA. But it will take them about two hours to get there."

Eve frowns, automatically filing and analyzing the information he just provided for future use. Some reflexes are too well ingrained to be repressed. _QuinJet. Two hours. Must be stationed somewhere in Europe. Aviano? _What she says, though, is much more practical.

"We've alerted our Special Forces and they're scrambling, but they have to come from the South. Three hours, we've been told, too."

They look at each other for a moment of silence, which Coulson breaks for both of them.

"I hope we have three hours."

…..

_Barton_

She moves differently now, with an assured, athletic stride that does more to alter who she is than any make-up or facial expression could.

"Don't know about what happened between you and Bond last night," Clint says, "but the Earth _definitely _just moved for me."

Not-Ramirez, having briefly acknowledged their existence, now proceeds to ignore it and briskly heads over to the station where Marquardt had been working. She casts a sharp and calculating look over the remaining array. A brief smile touches her lips – but not her eyes, Clint notices – and she attaches a small device to the main computer. The sleeves of her sweater ride up a little as she does so, and he takes note of an oddly shaped bracelet made up of links that look like projectiles; definitely not something that was there before. He wonders how many more weapons she carries concealed on her body; the pops that eliminated the guards were those of a handgun.

Bond hasn't stopped sawing on the ties, despite Not-Ramirez' arrival; Clint shifts slightly in order to conceal his activities.

"Don't bother," the woman says. "I know what he's doing. I'll be done here before you get free. And if I'm not …"

She lets the thought dangle. Bond obviously can't resist; he, too, is into connecting dots.

"So tell me. What did you do with the real Naida Ramirez?"

She stills, then shrugs in a _what-the-hell_ kind of way.

"I met her on the train to Glasgow. She was very keen to be working with MI-6, practically bubbling with excitement. _Very_ chatty."

She enters a few commands into the console; without turning around, she adds, "It's probably a good thing you never gave her that Top Secret clearance. That girl was a walking security breach."

_Was._

Pure, sheer opportunistic luck then. Well, depending on your perspective. The real Naida Ramirez would probably beg to differ. Clint feels mildly resentful – that sort of thing, where your entry into Mordor gets handed to you on a silver platter, never, _ever_ happens to _him_. (Then again, he suspects he wouldn't be able to step into someone else's identity with _quite_ that much ease, and without proper prep, as this woman obviously had. Takes talent, that, and a skill set he knows he doesn't possess.)

"So based on the fact that you haven't killed us yet, even though we're so conveniently trussed up, I assume you'll be okay if we get out of here in one piece?"

Her device having engaged and started downloading data, she straightens and looks at Clint with a half smile. It's quite a different smile than the one she'd given him (not to mention Bond) the night before; it reminds him of a cobra, ready to strike – as deadly, and as beautiful.

Needless to say, she doesn't answer his rhetorical question, but she does give an answer of a different kind.

"You have quite the reputation in certain circles, _Hawkeye._ Yes, I did catch Bond's slip concerning 'your arrows'. There aren't many professionals out there using a bow these days."

She smirks a little and leans back against the console, before taking her smartphone out of her pocket, and lines up a shot. The camera clicks and she briefly studies the image on the screen.

"What happened to your face? It wasn't _this _bad before."

"Never liked my nose, so I asked HYDRA to rearrange it," Barton snaps, and genuine (or else very well faked) amusement twinkles in her eyes.

"Well, no matter. I can photo shop that swelling out. Yuri Yerdennikov is said to be quite keen on getting his hands on the man who killed his sons, and the Cali cartel has a long memory. I'm sure I can come to suitable arrangements with several of the people who want you dead_, Clint Barton_. And until I have those contracts secured, you're worth far more to me alive than you would be dead."

Freelancer. Figures – still, worth a try to see if she'll spill some info for free. Except Bond has the same idea, and gets there first.

"So, who hired you to spy on HYDRA then? Maybe _we _can come to an arrangement? Enemies of my enemies, and all that?"

She tut-tuts, and turns back to the computer to check if the download is still ongoing.

"I never name my clients, James. _Very_ bad for business. Let's just say, the extractive sector is highly competitive, and word got out that Marquardt has developed a new way of scanning for deep-earth kimberlite deposits. Not to mention certain innovations to existing fracking processes, to allow access to those deposits. That knowhow is worth a lot of money in some places."

An ironic smile creeps into her eyes. "You know what they say: Diamonds are forever."

She unclips her device from the computer and slides it down the front of her v-neck sweater, presumably all the way into a brassiere.

"That's a really, really original place to put something like that," Clint remarks conversationally. (Some things you just can't resist.) "_Especially_ if you let people in there as readily as you did my colleague here."

For the briefest of moments, her eyes blaze with something he cannot name, but recognizes almost instantly. It's a look he's seen in the mirror, and it sears.

"Not without my consent," she says, and her meaning is clear: _Don't ever go there._

Clint's mind flashes to the twisted necks of those guards by Loch Dún – she must have spent the evening like them, on the moors, recceing the HYDRA compound rather than luxuriating in the spa – and he briefly wonders whether the four men Marquardt sent to find a 'silly girl' had caught up with this woman instead. (He sure hopes so.)

"Well, I'm glad we got that sorted," Bond huffs behind him. "I admit, I _was_ wondering."

"Nothing personal, James," she smiles. "Business is business, surely you appreciate that. Means to an end. Plus, I have to admit, it was nice to fuck a mark with functional abs for a change."

She walks over to where the two agents are tied up and pulls a knife out from … somewhere.

"Anyway, I should thank you both for alerting the good people here to your presence, with the stunt you pulled with your little recce last night. Having them focus on _you_ made my job today so much easier. You know what they say: _The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese_."

"You're just choc-a-bloc with clichés, aren't you?" Clint hasn't heard anyone spout that many banalities in a row for a while, not since early S.H.I.E.L.D. training. "Is everything you say or do something you learned from someone's playbook?"

She twirls the knife in her hand, and for a moment Clint wonders whether she's changed her mind about that whole _dead-vs-alive_ calculus in light of his inability to keep his big mouth shut. But he cannot deny the fact that despite – or because? – of the lethal fire blazing in her eyes, he has never seen a woman as stunningly beautiful as this.

When she speaks, it is without inflection at all.

"I have killed men for less, Agent Barton of S.H.I.E.L.D. But … as I said, I intend to cash out on you later. But for now, I suppose I owe you both a debt. Consider this payment in full."

With a flick of her wrist that is so fast as to seem like an illusion, she throws the knife right into the spot beside their wrists; Clint has the feeling that the blade's relative proximity to the artery in his wrist – as opposed to Bond's – is no accident.

The blade embeds itself in the ground with a thud - and she is gone.

…..

_Bond_

"Bloody hell," Bond mutters. The razor-sharp new tool allows him to saw through the zip tie that joins him and Barton together in less than a minute, after which he turns to the one binding his hands. As he does so, Barton manages to bring his own hands to his front in a few seconds – despite his damaged ribs – in a move that reminds Bond of the Cossacks' dance. (_Right. Circus._)

Barton holds out his wrists for the tie to be cut; Bond frees them, then their feet. They spend a few precious seconds massaging some feeling back into their abused limbs. Neither makes a move to run after the imposter – what's the point, really?

"Second Mouse, huh?" Barton says. "Trite, but clever. What about this Phase Two thing, though? Should we be worried about that? I mean, who knows what those choppers brought in. Strikes me as something we should stop before they can get to Three."

"You figure? I'm not happy with Phase_ One._"

Truth is, Bond is beyond pissed off. Gathering intel on a potentially dangerous op, with both of them hamstrung by their bosses' orders not to talk to each other is one thing; experiencing man-made earthquakes of escalating severity is quite another. Bond pockets the knife, while Barton kicks the useless dagger across the room.

"Not worth the ribs, that piece of shit, that's for sure," he growls as they head towards the exit of the Quonset hut. "Crap for throwing, too. No balance."

The dead guards – there had never been any doubt in Bond's mind that they _would_ be dead – are a welcome source of firepower. Bond idly wonders how many weapons not-Naida carries on her if she decided not to take these, and where she has been hiding them. The thought of having someone _that_ proficient with a blade in his bed is … well, this isn't exactly the time to decide between "disturbing" and "exciting", is it.

"Nice of your girlfriend to leave us some hardware," Barton says as he moves to pick up one of the guns and pocket extra ammo.

They do a quick perimeter check as they exit; nothing moves in the immediate vicinity. There are two more dark shapes in the grass. Things are definitely looking up in the procurement department.

Bond watches with grim fascination as Barton pulls knives out of each man's neck, wipes them off on the bodies and flicks them into his sleeves with casual dexterity. And then it dawns on him, his partner's true profession.

"You're not just an agent or a circus guy, are you, Barton? You're a bloody _assassin._"

Barton shrugs.

"I do what's necessary to eliminate problems S.H.I.E.L.D. points me towards." And then he grins. "And don't forget, _you're_ the guy with the license, Double-Oh-Seven. So – easy on the name-calling here, 'kay?"

The choppers are still on the ground by the farthest Quonset hut, the one in which Bond had photographed the machinery. Their propellers are turning slowly, and they seem primed for takeoff.

The two men proceed towards the final hut, alternating point and cover by tacit agreement; no words are necessary. Barton quietly dispatches a guard who suddenly appears around a corner with one of the recovered knives, when a sudden deep noise cuts through the silence, followed by a short rumble that shakes the earth beneath their feet.

"That was Number One," Bond stage-whispers. "Bloody big one, too. Brace for Number Two. Chances are it'll be …"

He lets his voice peter out; continuing is a waste of breath. Barton, salvaging the weapons carried by the unfortunate guard, likewise doesn't bother with a smart reply and simply drops to his knees, wincing slightly as he does. Bond follows suit a few meters away, splaying his arms and hands out slightly to brace against the expected tremor.

Even knowing what they do, based on the experience of the last two days, the violence of the Earth's reaction to the latest provocation takes them by surprise.

It starts with an almost feral growl that seems to go on forever. Bond finds himself chin first in the dirt as the ground beneath him bucks and heaves, as if the planet were intent on shrugging off its human irritants in a gesture of titanic contempt.

A siren sounds, and the whirring of the blades of the three choppers starts to intensify; presumably the HYDRA faithful are being gathered for their evac – a few minutes late, perhaps, but points for the effort. Bond briefly – and largely irrelevantly – wonders whether anyone will take a head count, and notice that some of the guards are missing. Probably not, he decides; despite his claim of being a more thoughtful employer than his red-skulled relative, Marquardt doesn't seem the type to give a shit.

The Quonset hut closest to them starts to shift and waver, in a pattern that absurdly reminds Bond of an old movie of the Tacoma Narrows bridge disaster. Sure enough, the thing starts to come apart at the welds. The roof falls in on itself, but the wall beside Barton buckles and tears, and the part closest to him peels outward. Bond watches helplessly as an enormous piece of corrugated metal heads towards his partner in what seems like slow motion; all he can do is to hang on to a clump of vegetation, to avoid being tossed around like so much debris.

Another minute later (or an hour, or an eternity – how do you measure time, when the very ground beneath your feet is turning into liquid waves?) and the rumbling finally stops. The silence is broken only by the thud-thud-thud of the three choppers; one of them, late in taking off from the treacherous ground, sways in the air like a drunken dragonfly. A late would-be passenger is hanging from the open window; his frantic movements are impeding the pilot's attempt to right the machine and he is summarily kicked off his precarious hold by one of the men inside.

Bond drags himself up and crawls over to the ruins of the hut on hands and knees. The only sign that Barton has not been flattened completely is the slight angle in which the metal sheet is sticking up off the ground, and a stream of muttered curses pouring out from underneath. Bond lifts up the sheet – no easy feat, as it is wedged beneath several others; he goes into a squat and emits a feral growl as he throws everything he's got into the effort to free his partner.

"Bloody hell," Bond pants as Barton manages to roll out from underneath, even bloodier than before and twice as pissed off. "Next time you bring the house down, pull up a goon first, for use as a fulcrum."

"I'll try and remember that," Barton huffs and reaches for the gun he dropped. "Think that license of yours covers a loaded chopper?"

Bond barks out a humorless laugh. "I'll make the argument," he says, and takes aim.

Two shots into the helicopter's side and the parts of the canopy that aren't shattered turn red. The pilot's last instinctive reaction must have been to yank at the cyclic; the machine's nose points almost straight in the air before the blades give up trying to keep it aloft and the whole thing comes tumbling down, straight into the ruins of another Quonset hut. A fireball flashes, moments before the sound of the explosion assaults their already-numbed ears.

"If that was Phase Two," Barton manages to squeeze out as they head towards the hut with the fracking machinery (is there more than one?), "I wonder what they have in mind for Three. This shit is hard on the infrastructure, even with diamonds at the end of the rainbow."

Bond prefers not to think about it and says so, just as gunfire erupts from another of the choppers.

"Heads up!" he hollers, as the ack-ack-ack and the small dust clouds of strafing come towards them.

Barton curses as he ducks and rolls out of the way. Bond springs back to his feet with his borrowed gun blazing, but the chopper is already over their head and the bullets have little effect on its hull. Luckily, the pilot can't turn on a dime and has to take a wide arc before he can come back for a second pass.

The hut they were heading for is still standing. They manage to get inside before the chopper is back, even as gunfire erupts from the area where HYDRA's small fleet of SUVs and the third chopper are parked.

The fracking rig Bond had filmed the night before is still intact, obviously benefitting from a sophisticated suspension system – not too surprising, given its purpose. But the rest of the scene inside the hut is pretty chaotic. Obviously, the effects of Marquardt's "Phase Two exploration" have exceeded expectations – far beyond what made the good Mr. Über-Villain prep for evac and consider measuring possible gas emissions with human canaries.

_Oh, shit. Gas?_ He takes a sniff. No. Not yet, anyway. The canaries are, if not exactly singing, still on their perch (mostly).

Crates marked _Stark Industries_, painted with the universal logo for explosive substances, are flung about like so many children's building blocks. One of them has cracked open, and a couple of small, metallic devices like slightly over-sized bullets can be seen among spilled packing material.

"Looks like they've graduated from using a binary liquid explosive to something more sophisticated," Bond notes.

"Or else that stuff is meant for Phase Three? Stark's stuff is serious shit. That man knows how to blow things up," Barton replies. "Too bad he doesn't care who he sells it to. Oh, _whoops_."

Barton's gun cracks – once, twice – before Bond can ask what that last comment was about, and two guards that had just managed to pick themselves off the floor fly backwards, neatly felled by a single headshot each.

"Seems like not everyone headed for the Ark."

Sure enough, a voice barks, "Initiate Phase Two!"

A couple of thoughts cross his mind: _Marquardt. _And the second … Barton obviously shares it, disconcerting as it is.

"Shit. That last one _wasn't _Phase Two?"

Bond cocks his gun and heads in the direction of the voice – HYDRA's techs are behind the fracking rig, there won't be time to get around there to stop them – and almost steps on one of those small metallic devices.

_Serious shit, Barton said?_ Worth a try. Probably not the way these things are meant to be set off, but …

"Barton!" he bellows. "Hit this, then duck!"

He flicks the gun into his left hand and picks up the device, winds up and bowls the thing towards the rig. Barton waits until it is close to one of the metal struts and fires.

For a moment, everything goes silent; it's almost as if sound, light and oxygen are being sucked out of the space in the hut and into the tiny metal capsule. Bond's chest constricts with the pressure change and the gun clatters uselessly to the ground as he throws himself down – away from the rig – and covers his head with his arms.

There is a dull thud, and a tremendous concussion wave lifts him off the ground and blows him towards the edge of the hut like a leaf. Out of the corner of his eye he sees another shape – Barton – being hurled away from ground zero of the … Explosion? Implosion? There is no fireball, no smoke, but pieces of debris come flying in what Bond does not doubt would on a slow-motion video prove to be a perfectly spherical pattern. He keeps his arms over his head for what seems like an eternity, pieces of metal raining down around him.

There are screams from the other side of the hut – he hopes whatever it was that hit Marquardt or one of his goons _hurt _–and then a second dull _thud_ rocks the ground, deep underneath his body.

_Bugger. _

Bond picks himself off the floor, picks up the dropped weapon and heads for the other side of the hut. Two of Marquardt's minions, both in white lab coats, lie motionless on the ground, one half-buried under one of the struts, the other with a piece of metal embedded in his skull. There is no sign of Marquardt.

"Car park," Bond shouts over to Barton, who seems to be a little slower in getting up every time he gets knocked down. "He must be trying to get on that chopper before the next impact hits."

Barton nods wordlessly and stumbles forward, obviously running on straight determination and willpower. Adrenaline, Bond knows from experience, is a remarkable drug, but it only lasts so long. It's a mixture of good and bad that based on their previous measurements, they will have about five minutes before the reaction to the latest – and most ferocious – blast sets in and things might really go to hell.

The first thing they see in the parking area as they emerge from the gut is half a dozen or so dead bodies, and fresh tyre marks in the muddy ground; the pattern is consistent with a vehicle peeling off at high speed. Ramirez, taking her leave, heading for … wherever. If she's smart, she'll go for the bridge – she'd get there and across before anyone can get to a functioning comms device to have her stopped.

Not that she likely could be, based on what he's seen.

The second thing they see, gleaming a surprisingly reassuring silver in the rain, is the Aston Martin. It's parked off to the side; presumably Ramirez had driven it up here, but exchanged it for one of the more useful SUVs in HYDRA's fleet for her overland escape.

At the far end, Marquardt is headed for the remaining chopper, blood-and-mud-stained lab coat flapping in the wind from the propellers, while the other cars are rapidly filling with HYDRA personnel. Evidently, his enlightened HR policies don't extend to providing airlift in case of major quake for just anyone, or else the vehemence of the latest quake resulted in larger-scale evacs than planned.

There's no real spot for taking cover and too many men with guns, so Bond suggests they simply make a run for his car, counting on the general chaos. It works up to a point – Marquardt, now onboard the chopper, spots them and bellows a command. Pretty soon bullets are whizzing past their heads from the SUVs, and then the chopper that is already in the air comes in for another strafing run.

Things are starting to look pretty bad – there is only so long you can fight a running gun battle with a 6:1 or so disadvantage, and Bond almost shouts a '_yes!'_ when the Earth starts to shake. It's about three minutes ahead of schedule and – even without a seismograph to attest to it – several Richter scale notches beyond expectations.

It starts out with a deafening roar, as if the God of Thunder himself had put his hammer down, and the ground seems to ripple. The HYDRA shooters lose all interest in Bond and Barton in favour of their own survival. Two of the SUVs get tossed around, crushing whatever shooters were hiding behind them; the rest of the men hang on whatever vegetation they can grab on to, like fleas burrowing into the fur of a dog intent on shaking them off. In its displeasure, the planet does not distinguish between good guys and bad, and both Bond and Barton have to drop their weapons in order to hang on themselves.

The chopper, meanwhile, takes off without warning, a couple of men trying frantically to grab on to its side, the wheels – anything to escape a ground that no longer holds them. They dangle, struggling for purchase, before falling back to the ground. One doesn't move again.

And then, with a sharp crack like a pistol shot, a narrow fissure opens up right beside where Bond and Barton … _where's Barton?_

He seems to have disappeared.

Bond stares at the spot where his partner had been a mere second ago, and then he sees it – a pair of hands, scrabbling for purchase in a place that no longer _is_. He crawls over to the edge of the crack and there's Barton, hanging on like some cliché from an action movie. His right foot has found a hold but there's nothing for his left, nothing but a yawning abyss – the broken ribs and slippery earth mean that he can't just pull himself up, and besides the Earth is still shaking.

For the first few feet, from what Bond can see, the sides of the fissure are black and red and brown and all colours of the earth, with small stones and ancient roots sticking out like grotesque hair, but it quickly turns to stone – the stratum HYDRA had sought to crack and apparently has. The crack is raw and open like a wound and it goes down deep, far deeper than Bond ever wanted to look. At the very bottom, something is starting to glow, like a golden eye, opening slowly, unblinkingly, as if to take the measure of its violators.

As he watches, it starts to shimmer an angry, pulsing red.

Bond refuses to think about what he sees, focusing on Barton instead, who is real, comprehensible, tangible and … slipping. The shaking has reduced to a vibration now, apart from a new kind of rumbling that has started to churn at the bottom of the newly made chasm; he can kneel down and lean over now without danger of being tossed into the fissure.

He grabs Barton's forearm, hard, and reaches down, holding out the other hand. Barton doesn't hesitate and lets go of his dubious handhold (a root, it appears) to grip the flesh-and-blood lifeline instead. _Trust. A wonderful thing._

Bond growls the air out of his lungs as he heaves, and it's a good thing Barton is a circus man, because he knows how to practically walk up what there is of a vertical wall as Bond pulls with all his strength. Two seconds later and both men lie panting, side-by-side in the mud.

"Thanks, man," Barton huffs. Bond knows from his tone that he means it, and even though he chases the sentiment with a, "Now let's get the fuck out of here."

Of course there are still plenty of HYDRA snakeheads left to deal with, Marquardt being one of them. But sticking around to mop up after an op is one thing; fighting off an angry Earth (and that bloody hellfire down there is moving now, making sucking sounds, bubbling higher) is quite another, and so Bond just nods. He's died once already, shot and drowned, and he suspects you only live twice.

Unfortunately, some of the HYDRA goons have found their footing again as well and have other ideas, single-minded bastards that they are, from behind the cover offered by the two SUVs lying on their sides. The gunfire starts up again almost as soon as Barton and Bond start their run for the Aston Martin, and they are forced to hit the ground again.

"Fuck this," Barton presses out through clenched teeth, gets up into a crouch and pitches one of those little Stark explosive devices, which he must have salvaged while clinging to the floor of the hut, towards the two vehicles from which the gunfire is emanating. The small, bullet-shaped gizmo streaks across the fissure in a graceful arc. Barton takes aim and fires; again, all sound seems to be sucked out of the air for a second and then a short, dull thud sends the two vehicles end over end. Several bodies go flying; a man's screams as he is hurled into the fissure come to a sudden end.

For a moment, the gunfire has ceased.

"Now!" Bond shouts and they make another run for it. "Nice throw. And nice shot."

They've almost reached the car when another shot rings out from up high – _bloody hell, forgot about the choppers _– and Bond feels a sudden pain, like a giant's clap on his shoulder.

_Fuck._

He grubs through his pocket with his still-functioning right arm. Good – key's still there; of course, Ramirez must have hot-wired the car to bring it here.

"Here," he says, tossing it to Barton with a wince. "I can still shoot. You drive."

…..

_**Barton**_

The chopper is hovering overhead and slightly to the side as Clint guns the engine. So much for non-military versions of the H-92; this sucker has a machine gun mounted off to one side. Bond takes a couple of shots at it while Clint fiddles with the ignition, wishing he'd had the time to take his bow out of the trunk. Nothing like an explosive arrow (or one of those little Stark thingies that he's fresh out of).

But Bond is a pretty decent shot too, and a figure slumps over the gun; the man is quickly moved aside though, and another takes his place. _Fucking HYDRA and their mantra._

"Seatbelts. It's gonna be a bumpy ride. Anything I need to know about this baby?"

"Whatever you do, don't push the red button."

Clint is intrigued; if things weren't quite so … hectic just now, his finger would be itching.

"Why? What's it do?" he asks as he guns the engine and peels off, straight for the camp. The red light at the bottom of the fissure seems to pulsate more brightly, closer to the top – hot damn, is that _lava_ rising up? It runs right through the area where the hut they'd been held in stood mere minutes ago (fucking canaries would have gone down cage and all), and seems to have spawned smaller cracks. _This looks bad._

Clint has to squeal the brakes to avoid one of them, and changes course. The chopper follows, but the dip it has to make brings the pilot's window into range briefly. Bond doesn't waste the opportunity and fires several rapid shots at the pilot. Instead of righting itself, the chopper continues its dive, straight into the fissure where the blades throw up mud and rocks as it goes down. The rearview mirrors light up in bright orange as he heads out of the camp.

The second chopper, the one with Marquardt on board, is gone.

Somehow the car makes it to the river and Clint is just starting to consider whether to drive across it – it's not that deep, he waded in it – but then he notices the steam rising from it and the thing is fucking _boiling. _Whoops. Best to head into the other direction, lest they get poached like all the trout and salmon in there.

Bond leans back in the seat and closes his eyes, probably hoping that if he doesn't have to see what Clint is driving over, he won't get bounced around quite so much. Clint is sympathetic; bullets in the shoulder hurt like stink. Doesn't mean he can do anything about the terrain, though.

"Let's just say, I'll hit the roof," Bond rasps out. "Literally."

"Cool. Must come in handy when you have people who give you stupid driving adv… Shit."

The earthquake has loosed the soil on the hill, and the car slides a few metres, slipping sideways as it does so. The wheels spin for a moment but regain traction on a patch of wiry heather (useful stuff, that) and Clint is able to continue down the hill and towards the main road. The chassis of the low-slung car periodically hits something bumpy, but nothing big enough to cause it to be stuck – so far.

Bond is starting to slump in his seat, which isn't good; shitty roads like this, Clint really needs a wingman, a second pair of eyes.

Provocation is generally a good way to keep someone interested.

"Anyone ever mention you throw like a girl, Bond? The way you tossed that Stark gizmo at that fracking rig? Besides, what was all that wind-up about, if you're just going to throw under-handed?"

It works like a charm. Bond rolls his eyes and goes off on a rant, on how cricket is a _thinking man's game_, not one of brute force, and underrated in America only because Americans have no sense of subtlety and all they ever want is instant gratification and will _never_ appreciate the riveting subtlety of a five-day test (whatever that is). Clint doesn't really feel like arguing the evident superiority of baseball – hell, he can hardly breathe at this point - but at least the guy's awake again and that counts.

Coming around the bend, it's pretty obvious that the cracks in the ground have spread farther than they'd thought; there's a doozy coming up halfway down the hill, about six meters wide, some ominous red light shimmering at the bottom, and no way around it that Clint can see.

What's behind them is even less reassuring – three of HYDRA's SUVs (how many of those suckers were there? Surely these are the last ones? – are coming up over the hill. Sure enough, they don't seem content with just running away from the fissure volcano, they're still after revenge; a bullet shatters the Aston Martin's rear windshield.

These guys don't seem to give up – like the fucking Energizer Bunny, powered by some weird Übermensch-thing. The chase is on.

What's needed here is a competent gunner.

"Umm ... Bond? Little help here?"

"On it."

The rear windshield is gone already, so Bond just fires straight through; one of the cars careens sideways, hits something and rolls. One down, but the other two keep going, and people inside keep firing. The Aston Martin's rearview mirror shatters into a thousand pieces, sending shards of glass flying.

"Can you please kill the other ones too? I hate having glass in my hair," Clint huffs out as he turns the wheel to avoid an overgrown boulder.

No answer. Shit. Bond's passed out cold after all. Hell, they're actually fresh out of options, unless you count being swallowed by earth-cracks filled with lava as a good idea. Clint guns the engine (three cheers for a standard transmission, on a car with guts) and heads for the narrow, glowing rift, looking for anything – a bump, a small hillock, hell, a tuft of grass – that would give the car some upward lift for takeoff.

Clint does spot something in the form of a bump in the vegetation, something he hopes is more than just a fluffy patch of heather (weight bearing would be a bonus) and just guns for it. He instinctively yanks on the steering wheel as the car loses traction and becomes airborne, as if that could give it lift that way. The Aston Martin is not a QuinJet, but by some miracle – maybe they're just due for a break – the thing actually soars, and comes down on the other side with centimeters to spare behind the rear tires.

Of course, when it does come down, the suspension screams in protest and the car is grinding metal, but _hot damn_, they've made it across the River fucking Styx and Clint lets out a whoop that sounds even to his own ears suspiciously like a _yee-haw!_

No time to rest on his driving laurels though. The goons in the pursuing cars haven't stopped firing, but single-mindedness isn't always a good thing. Neither of the drivers appear to have spotted the new crack, or else they didn't hit the right spots.

Calculating trajectories is a form of art, and these guys are Philistines. Clint watches through the rearview mirror as first one, then the other car rears up slightly, touches the other side with its front wheels, bounces up slightly, and … disappears. Two rim shots in one go – four points for the good guys.

And then he just drives. Clint doesn't really give a shit about the state of the car or what he might be doing to it as long as it moves, and moves away from HYDRA's experiment in creative geology. Any lava from the Loch Dún fissure that might actually spill over and make it this far should just go down those extra cracks, maybe even do some good and fill the suckers back up (at least that's what happened in that stupid movie where a volcano ate L.A., didn't it?), and that's fine by Clint. He sure as hell doesn't feel compelled to stick around to test the theory.

Neither, it appears, do the locals; like most of Skye, the area is sparsely populated, but the upheavals have triggered a small exodus. Everyone seems to be heading for the coast, and the far end of the island. Smart people, those Scots. He briefly wondered what shape the Lodge is in, and hopes that Iain the waiter has made it. Good kid, Iain, and here's hoping he forms that NGO some day.

A couple miles further and Bond starts to wake up again. He groans, just as a familiar silhouette emerges on the horizon: QuinJet. Timing, it appears, is everything. Maybe they'll have time to go after Marquardt in that third chopper.

Clint stops the car and flicks the lights on and off a dozen times in rapid succession. He is gratified to see the jet change course directly towards the Aston.

"Hey, you okay?" he turns to his partner.

"Just ducky," comes the reply. "You?"

Clint chuckles through the pain in his ribs and … everywhere, really.

"Guess we'll die another day, but in the meantime it's a good thing the cavalry just arrived, with the good drugs."

Bond manages to get out of the vehicle unassisted, but cringes as he sees the state the Aston Martin is in.

"Okay, this looks bad," Clint says cautiously, knowing what will come.

"You … you _broke my car!"_

It comes out almost as a whine, although that may be just the pain Bond must be in.

"Yeah, well," Clint shrugs, because really, what else is there to say? The poor thing is toast – chassis banged up six ways from Tuesday, wheels misaligned, suspension a distant memory, probably a broken axle, all but one of the windows shot out, and a coating of mud as the icing on the cake. Not to mention the blood on the passenger seat.

"Think positively, though. I have it on good authority that getting shot at and running into explosive shit counts as an _incident_ for insurance purposes, not an _accident_, so your rates won't even go up."

Bond leans back against what remains of his pride and joy and sighs heavily.

"That," he says decisively, "is the last time I'm taking this car to Scotland."

Clint studies him through narrowed eyes as a QuinJet comes to a landing on a patch of heather a couple of hundred feet away, then looks back at the Aston Martin. Nothing to lose here.

"Can I push that red button now?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_**Coulson**_

They're in a different coffee shop this time, closer to Durrant's hotel, in Marylebone. (Some day he'll teach Fury how to pronounce that properly.)

_Patisserie Valerie_, it says on the outside and the place tries to look French, although the effect is undermined a bit by the fact that the entire wait staff seems to be Polish or Latvian, or some other Eastern European nationality with shiny, new EU work permits. The newspapers held up by some of the other patrons carry screaming headlines about "the Scottish quake".

But the coffee is good – café au lait in a bowl – the Danish pastry is flaky and crisp, and the woman across from him both easy on the eyes and a lot more relaxed than the last time he saw her.

"So," she says with a not-quite smile, "I guess that's it then. HYDRA bit off more than they could chew, our boys stopped them from making it worse, and Scotland has a new tourist attraction."

Phil nods. Their respective experts seem to agree that the re-awakened volcanic activity at the foot of the Black Cuillin range is likely a one-off event, the result of the direct provocation of percussive explosive charges having been delivered into the cracks created by fracturing of the rock stratum with a binary explosive.

Moreover, the impact appears limited to the single fissure volcano beside Loch Dùn; the remaining fault lines along the northern part of Britain have evidenced no more than their usual, very low-level activity. The lake itself appears to have been temporarily drained, extinguishing the lava, but in time will be refilled – reshaped, with several finger-like extensions – by the endless Scottish rains. Efforts will be undertaken to restock the damaged fish population.

"Yes, it could have been worse." He lets the thought drift off, not really willing to go there on this fine morning.

"I wonder what else Stark Industries has up its sleeves, assuming they would be tapped to supply the explosive for Phase Three as well. The thought scares the living daylights out of me."

Eve peers at him over her coffee bowl, and it's obvious before she speaks that she wants something.

"You're American. Tony Stark is American. You should tell him to be a bit more careful who he sells things to."

Phil comes close to rolling his eyes at the thought of the eccentric billionaire, but he has an image to uphold and so he just smiles blandly. He is, after all, miles ahead of the request.

"Yes, indeed. Ironically, Stark's father co-founded S.H.I.E.L.D., in part to respond to the HYDRA threat. I already tried to talk to Stark, but he wouldn't take my call. He is … rather elusive. I did manage to speak with his assistant, though. Very sensible woman."

Moneypenny snorts.

"You really think that will do any good?"

Phil shrugs.

"I mentioned the Skye volcano, and she went very quiet. She called back a couple of hours later, and said the sale was initially authorized by Stark's Number Two, one Obadiah Stane. She promised to remind Stark not to just sign everything that is pushed in front of him. Not much, I admit, but a quantum of solace at least."

They spend a few minutes in companionable silence. Phil studies the pastel paintings on the wall – idealized landscape in Tuscany terracotta, pink and turquoise green, probably a subliminal way to make patrons crave the marzipan figures in the displays. He takes another bite of his almond croissant before reaching down for his briefcase, pulling out a brown envelope and sliding it across the table.

"For your eyes only," he says with a slightly smug smile.

Moneypenny is well enough trained not to reach for it immediately. Eagerness is always bad form.

_Oh?_ her left eyebrow says.

"Director Fury thought that you might be interested in the activities of a certain British national, whose interests may not necessarily coincide with those of one of the United Kingdom's most important institutions."

Moneypenny gets it immediately, and picks up the envelope with carefully manicured fingers.

"A member of the World Security Council?" she asks blandly.

Phil smiles his most enigmatic smile and inclines his head.

"I am not in a position to confirm or deny Lord Abernathy's professional affiliations. But I _do_ understand that he intends to meet with the Prime Minister next week, to accuse MI-6 of having been utterly ineffective in discovering, let alone preventing, certain geological experiments in the North of Scotland."

"And I assume the Good Lord has an alternative to propose?"

"I would not be surprised."

Moneypenny studies the envelope with the furrowed brow of a surgeon trying to determine where – not whether – to cut. She exhales slowly, sticks the envelope into her own briefcase and picks up her bowl with both hands. She raises it towards Phil, in a form of salute.

"Here's to back channels."

Phil Coulson's eyes crinkle into the smallest of smiles as he signals the waitress for another croissant.

…_.._

_M_

Her visitor sits in the corner like a giant bat, the wings of his coat spread out over the arms of a chair that seems too small to contain him. His single eye is fixed on her unrelentingly, while the scar that seems ready to crawl out from underneath the black patch reminds her of a malignant spider.

The Head of MI-6 is not inclined to fall for dramatic presentation, especially not in her own office, but she is almost – _almost – _prepared to make an exception for Nick Fury. He looms quite strikingly, even while sitting down, and she wonders for a moment whether he practices in front of a mirror. Well, he won't impress anyone today.

Fury has given up trying to pick up the teacup Moneypenny had given him, the dainty handle being far too delicate for his massive fingers. It had been fun watching him try, though, and M congratulates herself once more on her choice of assistant.

But enough contemplation. Time for business.

"You are a fucking idiot, Mr. Fury," M informs her guest succinctly.

"I've been called worse," he shrugs with a wolfish grin.

"I can only imagine," she says. "You gave away an opportunity to make a case to the British Government that MI-6 dropped the ball. Instead, you …"

"… reported to those Council members who were prepared to listen that our agents stopped a major threat _together. _Nothing but the truth."

"But not the whole truth, was it? Do you think they will let you get away with that?"

Fury holds her eyes with his. He doesn't mince words.

"They'll have little choice. We could go into the details of where things didn't go so well, but then we'd have to point out that it was members of the Council who ordered us to withhold information from _you_. Information that, in the long run, could cause a rerun of what happened on Skye. And all that because they wanted to expand the Council's turf."

M takes a sip of her tea – mindful that the bit about withholding information is as much of a dig at her as it is at certain Councilors – and studies her counterpart over the rim of the cup.

"And what, exactly, would have been the benefit of that?"

"The usual shit. Expansion of power. S.H.I.E.L.D. has the ear of certain governments – including yours – but only at certain times. Some of the Council members want us to broaden our reach. The whole idea of this joint op was to show that we could do your job, but better."

M is genuinely curious now.

"So why didn't you? Help them make MI-6 irrelevant?"

Fury scowls.

"Mergers and acquisitions is for the crooks that run Wall Street. The world is a fucked-up place, and I can't afford to have to go after every white-collar criminal, Russian mafioso and Al Qaida wannabe. I need to keep a hand free for more important stuff."

M stares at him thoughtfully.

"Such as?"

"Lady, there are things out there today that we have no idea about what they'll turn into tomorrow. Scientists, playing with gamma rays and serums, trying to create supermen. Arms dealers, developing ever smarter weapons, selling them to anyone who'll pay. Astrophysicists, modeling bridges to other dimensions."

M's eyes narrow.

"The world is not enough of a disaster already, that you have to drag in the stuff of science fiction and comic books too, Mr. Fury? That does not sound like actionable intelligence."

For a moment Fury looks weary beyond his years.

"HYDRA, and the guy who originally defeated them, Captain America – they _did _in fact make comic books out of them. Agent Coulson collects trading cards with his picture. But they were _real_, Director. And now HYDRA has come back, again unleashing forces they have no idea how to harness – but we don't have anyone like the Captain anymore. Marquardt got away, and who the hell knows who he might seek alliances with, and to do what. We need another line of defense. A _new_ line of defense."

M is tempted to snort out of pure habit, but she cannot – and will not – deny that what just happened on the Isle of Skye is unlike anything MI-6 has ever dealt with, or that HYDRA is anything but real.

And in her world, hard evidence beats a good assumption (and political desiderata) any day. That said, Fury is being coy about what he plans to do if he can keep MI-6 in the trenches, and she's not having it.

"You said Agent Barton was the best you have. Is that what S.H.I.E.L.D. intends to throw at those coming calamities? A guy with a bow and arrow?"

She knows she is being a bit unfair, the guy has proven himself as rather resourceful according to Bond, but still. The point needs to be made, and if it pokes Fury into giving up a bit more, so much the better. It seems to be working.

"Barton is just the beginning. I plan to find more people like him. Highly skilled and extraordinary people. Better even than your Commander Bond, even if you don't believe that's possible. I have no idea where I'll find them, but I will. Because I have to."

A sudden grim grin splits Fury's face, white teeth gleaming with far more menace than humour.

"But to do that I need space and time. Time I can't afford to waste grabbing turf I neither want nor need. You and I, we're better off doing our own thing, as long as we can agree to pick up the phone whenever we see something the other should deal with. Certain members of the Council didn't look too happy by the time I hung up on them, but I think your job is safe."

M harrumphs a little, refusing to permit herself to feel gratitude. Respect, maybe. That she can settle for. That, and … A complaint never comes amiss.

"I suppose everybody fucked up here somewhere, and the Ramirez-imposter managed to come through the middle. Someone else now has the blueprints for Marquardt's technology, and we will have to spend the next few months tracking every seismic irregularity on the planet to figure out who it was, and take it back."

She walks over to a side cabinet and retrieves a bottle and two glasses.

"Still, I suppose, the end result could have been worse. Who knows what Phase Three would have been like. So fuck the tea. This calls for the good stuff."

She pours a generous amount into both glasses and holds one out to Fury, whose nostrils flare as the unmistakable scent of malt, heather and peat fills the room. M raises her glass, and waits for the _clink_.

"To the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

….

_**Barton**_

The light in the corner is dim enough for the glow of his cellphone to reflect off his face. New orders, just in. He looks at the image on the screen once more, mutters a curse and puts the phone face down on the table.

He'd figured that maybe, just maybe, he'd be given a break. Saving Scotland from eventually becoming an archipelago should be good for, what? A week of peace? Two, even? But no. Nick Fury, as always, has other ideas.

_Arrow guy reporting for duty. _

Fuck. Sometimes, life is … complicated.

Clint sighs and looks around the bar for distractions. Well, technically speaking, it isn't a bar. It's a _pub_. Short for 'public house', whatever the fuck that means. The owner is a publican. (Would opening a second pub make him a re-publican?)

Who knew spending a week in an island kingdom could be so fucking educational, and in your own language yet?

Speaking (okay, _thinking_) of island kingdoms and their quaint customs. It almost pains him to admit it, but beer is actually a lot tastier when it isn't ice cold. He lifts his glass – Smithwicks, from the tap – and watches the bubbles rise up towards the creamy top layer of foam.

"Looking for enlightenment? You won't find it in there. No olives."

The voice is followed by the scraping of a chair on the stone floor, and the _clunk_ of a damp-looking package being dropped on the wooden table. The other thing about British pubs? They're not big on textiles muffling the sounds of people having a good time. Clint doesn't bother to look up, but continues to contemplate his pint.

"Just thinking. Whoever thought American beer was the best use of grain since sliced bread has never had this. Wonder if I can get this stuff in New York."

Bond slides into the chair across from Clint's bench, a little awkwardly as his left arm is still in a sling, but otherwise he seems fine.

"Glad we managed to impress you just a little, somewhere, Barton. Let me know if you can't and I'll make sure you get a regular delivery. Our station chief in Washington is a classmate of mine."

Clint looks up at that, surprised.

"You'd do that? Thanks, man."

Bond shrugs.

"Least I can do." He nods at the server, pointing at Clint's glass. "What he's having."

"What? No martini, Bond? You're slipping."

"I'm off the clock. No image to uphold. I only do suave when I get paid for it."

Clint grins. A sentiment he can sympathize with.

While they're waiting, Bond pulls a folded up newspaper article out of his jacket pocket, straightens it out and passes it over to Clint. _Body of Researcher Found By Tracks_, the headline screams.

"Guess we know what happened to the real Ramirez."

Clint skims the piece. _Naida Ramirez._ The young geologist who'd been so excited about working for MI-6, she just had to tell the nice redheaded woman she met on the train about it.

"_She_ was good though, wasn't she? Don't think I could get into character that quickly, or that thoroughly. Wonder what her game plan was before she ran into Ramirez. Seduce Marquardt, maybe?"

There's no need to specify who _she_ is.

Bond's beer arrives quickly; it's still early, and there aren't that many patrons. He raises his glass, and Clint obediently does likewise.

"To the integrity of the Earth's crust," Bond says.

Clint nods, and then frowns.

"Wonder what she'll do with the plans she walked off with."

"Hand them over to whoever hired her, I guess. Our analysts think that HYDRA's system could be used to pry oil and gas out of places that hydraulic fracking can't reach. Somebody will pay good money for the know-how."

Clint shakes his head.

"Let's just hope they don't turn some unsuspecting continent into a river of lava in the process. I mean, seriously. Fucking with geology, blowing up the planet to make a few bucks? That's like sawing off the branch you're sitting on, just to get at a couple of apples. Don't know what's worse, HYDRA or multinational corporations."

"Not that dissimilar, really," Bond replies. "Different head, same snake."

He smiles suddenly.

"Maybe she agrees with you. She doesn't strike me as the kind who'd monologue like a movie villain and give out free hints where she might be taking those plans."

"That line about 'diamonds are forever'?"

Bond nods.

"Exactly. My next job is to find out who her customers were, and get the information back. Thanks to her, I think I know where to start." He smirks a little, and lifts his glass. "Anyway. Here's to inter-agency cooperation in the face of apparent failure."

Clint snorts.

"Yeah, I'll drink to that. Even though I'm still waiting for my boss to tell me to kill yours."

"Would you?"

"No comment. But don't tempt me."

Bond nods his agreement, reaches for the package on the table, and pushes it towards Clint.

"Here, maybe this will change your mind. M_ personally_ cleared this for me to give to you. A gift, on Her Majesty's secret service."

Clint is momentarily taken aback. He's not exactly the sort of person people give presents to, unless they're bugged or wired to explode. And coming from a foreign intelligence agency? But this is a pub, and unlike some covert services he knows, MI-6 isn't known for blowing up places frequented by civilians. They certainly wouldn't risk their top agent in the process. (Or would they? M strikes him as pretty ruthless.)

Bond notices the hesitation.

"It's safe. I dropped it getting out of the car, and I'm still here. See?" He points his finger at a damp spot in the packaging. "Puddle mark."

"What the hell is this, anyway? Lump of coal, to shove up some Councilor's ass and hope it'll turn to diamond?"

Bond shakes his head.

"Nothing so symbolic. Apparently Q was utterly intrigued by your bow-and-arrow routine, and made some special tips in his spare time for fun. M says you might as well have them."

"_Heads_. It's arrow_heads_," Clint corrects him automatically as he rips open the loose wrapping. Sure enough, there's a dozen arrowheads, neatly laid out on … "The blue velvet is a nice touch."

"Q's grandmother was from Skye, but don't mention it. He wouldn't want anyone to think that gadgeteers have a soul. Or human ancestors, for that matter."

Bond is actually craning his neck now; it's clear that he hasn't seen the box' contents yet, either.

"So what do they do? Can you tell?"

Clint lifts one of the heads out of the box between his left thumb and forefinger, and lets the dim light of the pub glint off the dull, grey metal. A small label, covered in tiny, meticulous writing, is attached to it with a string.

"Says here, this one can deliver a fast-acting virus to any computer, via a miniature USB stick that pops out once it's clamped onto its target. Adjustable to most known models of computer through a modular device, right where it goes on the shaft. Cool."

"Huh," Bond grunts. "Could have used that up North. Might have saved us some trouble."

"No shit. Sure it'll come in handy someday, though. And this one…"

Clint picks up the piece of paper, holds it up to the light.

"'_In case you should ever want to use your powers for good_," he reads out loud, "_this head will extinguish any fire within a twenty-foot radius. Including explosions you might have just set off yourself.'_ Never know when that might come in handy, I suppose."

"And the rest?" Bond is obviously more than a little pissed at Q, giving away such cool toys to someone other than him.

Clint smirks and closes the box.

"Classified."

"Fuck you, Barton."

"Language, Double-Oh Seven."

"Speaking of 'fuck you'. I have a question, _Hawkeye_. About you and Ramirez."

"Yeah?"

Clint drawls out the question he gives as his response, but frankly, he'd expected that they would come back around to her soon enough.

"Why did you not make a play for her? Professional ethics? Not your type? Or not into girls? Now that I think about it, you did have a rather startling effect on Q."

"That's _four_ questions."

Bond is obviously not into parsing his own rhetoric, and waves him off.

"So? Why not?"

Clint gestures at their empty glasses.

"Buy me another beer, and I may tell you."

"I just gave you a box of expensive hardware."

"_Q_ gave me a box of expensive hardware. _You_ dropped it in a puddle."

Bond shakes his head and signals the server. _Two more pints. _Clint waits in silence as their beer is being drawn from the tap, watching the barkeep clear off some of the foam and add more of the dark amber liquid.

Clint hasn't really thought about that question himself – not that he hasn't thought about _her, _he has, far too much – and he welcomes the time to map out his response. Why he would even consider giving one is a mystery to him, but he does. He finds himself gripping the phone in his pocket.

The fresh glasses arrive and Clint takes a deep draught, licking the foam off his upper lip.

"In no particular order, yes, she was absolutely my type. Most gorgeous woman I've clapped my eyes on in a very long time, plus I really dig redheads. And no, I don't let the job get in the way of a good fuck, time and circumstances permitting. Girls? Never. Women? Absolutely. Men? Had me some offers over the years. Haven't said yes yet, but like they say, never say never."

He cradles the glass in both hands, staring at the already-diminished contents. Bond doesn't let up.

"Then why _not_ go for Ramirez, or whatever her real name is?" Bond licks his lips in memory, even as his fingers unconsciously graze his healing shoulder. "She did give you a couple of openings, as I recall."

Clint feels a sudden, unexpected twinge of … something. The woman Bond had bedded was Naida Ramirez, pretty post-doc scientist – not the magnificent creature they met in Marquardt's command center, who threw a razor-sharp knife to within millimeters of his wrist in the blink of an eye. His tone is perhaps a little sharper than it needs to be when he replies.

"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed isn't my style, and that's what she was giving us that evening. I'd be more interested in the stuff she didn't let us see until _after_ she dropped that act. But you get involved with someone like that, that's the road to complicated. Now _you_ tell _me_ something."

Bond's blue eyes narrow and focus on Clint like a laser.

"What?"

Clint stares right back at him.

"Did she get any info from you, in a moment of post-coital bliss, perhaps?"

"Nope." Bond frowns for a moment, obviously replaying the dialogue of the night in question (such as it was). "Give me some credit."

"Really. This woman was a serious pro, Bond, and she obviously didn't sleep with you just because of your abs. You talk about Ramirez' supposed assignment at all?"

"Nope," Bond says again. "Like she said, she wanted to know about _you_, ostensibly because it was clear you weren't MI-6. Bugged me a bit at the time, her interest in you, since we'd just … You know."

Clint's mental antennae begin to wave, although he isn't quite clear in which direction, or why.

"And? What'd you tell her?"

Bond shakes his head.

"Nothing. Just that you … _Bugger."_

Clint looks at him expectantly.

"Yes?"

"I made a joke. That you were a ghost buster_._"

Clint stills for a second, then grins and lifts his glass in sarcastic salute.

"Thanks, man. So together with your earlier arrow comment, that would have told her who I work for. And by extension, just what she might be facing in Marquardt's camp. Fast-forward a few hours, and she stands on that rock, practically waving for those HYDRA guys to come and get us – make them think their spy problem was solved, so she can come in behind us. Second Mouse, like she said. Not bad payback, for a quick turn in the sheets."

Bond mutters something that is probably a curse, although it's hard to tell whether it's directed at Clint, Clint's analysis, or himself.

Bond's question is still out there, though, and bears thinking about. Clint could of course pretend that he has firm principles about not getting involved with questionable females, but that would just be bullshit. Hell, he's the poster child for inappropriate affairs. This one though … there was something about her, and him, that just screamed … no, not '_don't'_, but … '_not now'. _

There's an easy explanation – probably not the only one, and maybe not the right one, but it'll do for now.

"Maybe I just got lucky, staying away from her. Question of timing. Fact is, I just got divorced from _seriously complicated_."

Bond cocks a questioning eyebrow. '_You, married?' _his face practically screams, as well it might; Clint sometimes has a hard time believing it himself. Hell, he did even when he _was_ married, which was part of the problem.

"Yeah, well. I thought it was a good idea at the time. We both did. And when complicated is good, it can be fantastic. But when it ain't …"

Clint's hands mimic something vaguely like a thermonuclear explosion.

"_Boom_."

There's a sudden look of pain across Bond's face, and Clint knows that his own sudden honesty has touched on something utterly raw. When Bond speaks again, his eyes are far away and his tone is flat.

"Yeah, I sure have a talent for getting that _boom_. Moneypenny is right."

He grips his glass so hard that his knuckles turn white for a moment, before draining it in one large gulp. It suddenly strikes Clint that somewhere along the line the man across from has become a friend – and friends need to know that the things they throw out there don't just go into a void.

"What was her name?" he asks, almost gently.

Bond stares into his empty glass and Clint signals two refills to the server.

"Vesper," Bond finally says. "Vesper Lynd. She's dead. _Boom._"

The server comes with two fresh pints, and Bond reaches for his glass like a lifeline.

"Maybe Moneypenny is right, and I pick the dangerous ones on purpose."

To punish himself for the death of the one that got to him? Clint makes a decision. They've shared a fair bit already, and apparently even their organizations now talk to one another on occasion. So fuck Level Seven – sometimes, it's just about trust.

"May interest you to know that as of an hour ago, I'm actually under orders to go _look_ for 'complicated'. However long, and whatever it takes_._"

He picks his smartphone up from the table, calls up the picture Coulson had sent him and slides the thing over to Bond. Even on the small screen the red halo of the woman's hair shines like a warning beacon; her eyes are the green of a Northern lake – cool, clear and impossible to fathom.

"Her real name is Natalia Romanova, or Natasha Romanoff. Professionally trained specialist in close combat, spycraft and interrogation techniques. From Russia, with love - now a freelance operative. Also known as the Black Widow. Hard on men, apparently."

Bond looks up, the question clear in his eyes. Clint nods.

"My next target."

Bond looks at the picture, and back at Clint. A small smile curls his lips, gradually develops into a chuckle and finally into a full-fledged guffaw. He raises his glass in a toast - for good luck, or whatever.

"Second mouse."


End file.
